


Feel it like a fever, burning through the night

by LunaCanisLupus_22



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Comedy, Drama, Everybody Lives, Hermit Stiles Stilinski, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Minor Angst, Near Death Experiences, Pack Dynamics, Powerful Stiles Stilinski, Romance, Scott is not a good friend, Slow Burn, Snark, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles has a lot happening okay, Touch-Starved Stiles Stilinski, Wolfsbane Poisoning, Wolfsbane as Weapon, an unnatural amount of tv show references, endless sarcasm, friendship woes, happy ending binches, including a semi-subtle crush on derek hale, purple flowers au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 81,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22749598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCanisLupus_22/pseuds/LunaCanisLupus_22
Summary: “That was my favourite fern,” Deaton declares and Stiles glances at Scott for clarification that such a ridiculous statement just came out of his boss’ mouth.“You could have just told me not to touch it,” Stiles points out sensibly, squirming inside with something he refuses to believe might be guilt.Not about the dumb plant, but the instant devastation he’s currently overwhelmingly and inescapably capable of. He can destroy with one touch now.This is going to complicate thingsso much.Or the one where Stiles tries to do the noble self-sacrificing thing: gains a new power, a spectral skin colour and basically ruins his own life. 0/10 would not recommend.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 365
Kudos: 3008
Collections: Sterek Fanfic, Teen Wolf ▶ Derek Hale / Stiles Stilinski





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from Elley Duhé's song [Fever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNitk3e3rDc)
> 
> Woooooooooo one of the many many fics sitting in my WIP folder at the moment. Hope you guys like reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!
> 
> ♡♡♡

  
  
  


Five years, an entire rolodex of supernatural interlopers from a to z going up against a motley crew of teenagers defending their shitty murder town: statistically their luck was bound to run out somewhere.

It’s just that Stiles never predicted it would happen _here_ of all places.

The back parking lot of Dunkin’ Donuts at ten pm is hardly the prime location for the mother of all showdowns against a drifter pack of hunters whose code follows the shoot first, shoot second and ask no questions beyond how deep to bury the bodies later.

Dunkin’ Donuts is also not one of their usual night time haunts but after the weekly pack meeting had run late Scott had wanted food and Erica wouldn’t shut up about this bagel bacon sandwich combo she’d tried at Dunkin’s the other day. She managed to sway Isaac and Jackson to her cause whilst simultaneously succeeding in making the rest of the pack peckish with a play by play of how perfectly the ingredients had blended together in her mouth. 

Plus Lydia had decided she wanted the new Hershey’s cookies ‘n’ crème latte they sold there and once Lydia Martin decided things they had an unfailing tendency of coming to be without any real resistance. Which is also how Derek, who hung out only sometimes, a sporadic, negative space of a pack member when not being brutally murdered, ended up in one of the three cars chauffeuring the pack across town, looking very much like he had no idea how he’d arrived in this position.

The unbeatable power of Lydia Martin. 

But Dunkin’ Donuts (which did end up having a formidable bagel bacon sandwich actually thank you Erica Reyes) and the pack (who unanimously conceded it was worth the trip out there after having sampled it) heading back to their cars in a semi-abandoned parking lot, and the sudden, tensing of Derek Hale’s shoulders- is absolutely the combustible combination for an evening goings sideways. 

Stiles doesn’t want the confirmation of a group of older men stepping out from behind several parked cars, mid to late thirties, visible weapons and nothing-more-to-lose expressions carrying the harsh lines of their faces in their unwelcome arrival. They surround the group pretty quickly in spite of the amount of muscle- only six of them together- a little overconfident _and_ outnumbered. 

Scott breaks the silence first.

“Come on,” he says morosely even as the rest of the pack start squaring up for a fight. “I just wanted the breakfast sandwich.”

Unsurprisingly, this does not present itself as a Convincing Argument to the hunters turning about face and continuing on with their evening conflict free. The scruffy looking man at the front makes a pretty unflattering remark about where Scott can stick that breakfast sandwich before he lunges forward with a knife and then it is _on_.

Years of experience have the pack moving together, a coordinated attack that would make Chris Argent weep with pride, as they fend off the hunters attempting to close in on them.

Stiles, who left his bat in the jeep three metres to their left, feels reasonably calm and panicked all at once, bracketed in by the werewolves as they close ranks around him and Lydia respectively: shielding the weaker, human-ish links of the group. 

And Stiles is almost starting to think he doesn’t need the bat anyway when Boyd knocks out the silver fox of the group against the side of an SUV, denting it with the force of the blow before the guy drops like a stone, crossbow skittering under the car while Erica takes down the beefy guy on his left and Scott, Jackson, Isaac and Derek close in and focus on the other three.

Except Kira cries out in pain and that’s all it takes.

Scott turns away from the fight for just a second but Stiles already knows that one second is fatal. And so does Derek because he makes a move at the same time just as the scruffy hunter is drawing a ridiculously sized syringe from his belt with a determined glint in his eyes and moving in to stab Scott with it. Moving in for the kill seems more accurate because while Stiles might not be the next Deaton in the making, he sure as hell can recognise the purple liquid in that plunger isn’t grape soda.

And suddenly it’s starting to feel a lot less like a happy coincidence that they all met here in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot to begin with. Almost like they’ve been trailing the pack for some time, watching and observing, and figuring out who the alphas were. Selecting their main targets.

Uh oh.

Stiles dives just as Derek does, except in the moment he doesn’t really know who he’s protecting. The impulse running through him is just to get between the werewolves and that hunter. And that’s his last thought when he smashes into Derek, knocking him off course so that the hunter’s syringe plunges directly into Stiles’ neck instead. 

He groans in pain as the liquid rushes into his veins, hot and burning beyond anything Stiles has ever felt before. He catches hold of the hunter mechanically as his limbs lock up and they crash together into concrete in a perverse embrace, body rigid with shock as he starts to hyperventilate.

The wolfsbane floods his body quickly, and Stiles thinks he can almost feel it spreading inside him. His entire face goes numb in the space between one breath and he’s lost complete motor control of his body when his eyes roll back into his head.

He thinks he’s unconscious. Or he’s never been more awake. He’s screaming before he even understands that the high-pitched, chilling sound echoing in the parking lot is actually coming out of his own mouth. Because it's drowned out by the way his blood rages, scorching its way out of his skin through pure, blistering heat alone, bones protruding in preparation of bursting free of flesh.

And the sensation just goes on and on and on.

He’s in agony when the overwhelming pressure inside him finally reaches a plateau and there’s a wild part of him, the animal portion of his brain that knows he’s about to die in the fucking parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts and then it just- _stops_. 

All of it.

And then he breaks off screaming and becomes aware of how the others are shouting too.

Stiles rolls over, relieved and exhausted all at once as every inch of his skin tingles with the left over awareness of what just happened. At least the pain is gone though. If there was a upside to be had in any of this. Stiles exhales a heavy lungful and yanks the syringe out of his neck for good measure. 

He coughs into the concrete, getting his breath back as he clutches the needle in his fist, hands shaking as it turns over in his palm in order to inspect it properly.

The syringe is completely empty. Whatever the hunter put in it, Stiles copped the full dose. 

That’s definitely not good.

“Stiles! Stiles!” Scott is yelling as if it's directly in his ear. “Talk to us.”

“Don’t touch him,” comes Derek’s serious voice and Stiles can see that his dumb sneakers are the closest to Stiles at the moment, while the others have long since stepped back. 

He can even spot the retreating feet of the hunters in the distance as they bolt off into the night. “Don’t touch what’s left of the hunter either. Nobody goes near Stiles until we get him to Deaton.”

Right. The wolfsbane. He must be aconite ground zero at the moment.

“And how are we supposed to do that if we can’t touch him?”

Stiles groans and manages to push himself up into a sitting position. His skin feels kind of raw, like he managed to squeeze all the blood, bone and muscle out of his pores in one sitting even if logically he knows that’s not possible and he’s somehow still intact. Well, he still looks completely intact. 

What’s going on inside him is probably a different horror story. What does internal bleeding feel like exactly? Stiles would like to know ASAP.

“See this is why we should have gone to Wendy’s like I suggested,” he mutters at Derek’s feet because that’s the only place he has the energy to direct his attention to at the moment.

“Hey!” someone shouts across the parking lot, and the pack turns almost unwillingly to the door of Dunkin’s where the girl that served them earlier, whose nametag said Laurel and didn’t smile until Boyd elbowed Derek in the gut for trying to snake some of his donut while his back was turned, scowls at them. “I don’t get paid enough for this shit. You better clear outta the parking lot or I’m calling the cops.”

Stiles sees her waving the broom she was using to sweep the place earlier, now brandished at them as a makeshift weapon and laughs.

“Would you believe my dad’s the sheriff?” he shouts back, just as the rest of the pack crowds quickly around him.

As if they’re trying to shield him from view. Which, hey he’s not that hideous alright? The fact that she actually drops the broom when her gaze falls to him sprawled out on the asphalt though probably isn’t the greatest of signs.

Nor is the way she goes, “Oh mother fuck, hell _no_ -“ and darts back inside Dunkin’s without picking the broom back up.

“I’m fine,” he assures them, insides squirming tensely at the girl’s reaction as he reaches up to place his hand at the entry point of where the needle had a brutal introduction with his neck. 

It’s hot to the touch and feels like it scabbed over already. No, more like it was _cauterized_. 

What the hell?

“Stiles,” Derek says, looming over him despite his previous command. Stiles can’t help but notice that the wary distance everyone else has put between them and him has suddenly grown. “You’re purple.”

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs. “Is this some kind of almost-dying humour because it needs some serious work, man.”

Derek’s forehead scrunches up with visible tension. “No, Stiles. Look at your- your skin. Look at your hands.”

Stiles looks. He lifts his trembling fingers up to his face, cushioned by the security of absolute doubt. 

But- well Derek isn’t exactly wrong. His skin is nearly the exact same colour of a grape soda can. 

Ha ha. That’s a new one. Stiles blinks a few times just to be sure but the fresh shade of deep purple to his skin doesn’t go anywhere when he closes his eyes. And from what he can see it's everywhere too.

What the hell is this? 

“Okay,” he says, shaking his hands out experimentally to see if the colour is starting to fade. “Sure. I mean why not, right? This seems fine.”

It isn’t. But that might just be a delayed reaction.

“Even your hair is purple,” Erica says, half horrified, half amazed.

“Okay,” he tries again. “So we keep hold of this needle for evidence, ask the hunter what strain of wolfsbane he-“

Stiles tries to get up, stumbling and automatically reaching out towards Scott for help but Scott flinches back, out of range like he’s an explosive device that detonates upon skin contact. Which, ouch. He rights himself on his own without face-planting and doesn’t try to get up again. Stiles glances at the rest of the pack next, but they’ve all backed further away from him almost at the same time. 

Everyone except Derek who’s standing at his left still peering down at him with his own annoying brand of intense deliberation. But that has less to do with kindness and sparing feelings and is probably more located in his long suffering approach to ridiculous supernatural bullshit territory.

And maybe the fact that Derek’s first instinct isn’t always to protect himself.

But it’s not like the purple would be contagious. Or would it? Maybe it could still hurt werewolves through touch.

The hunter will know, it was his creepy monster killing juice after all. But when Stiles looks around for the generous malefactor who injected him, he can’t find him anywhere. Where did he go? The others had run when shit hit the fan but scruffy guy can’t have escaped that easily. Not when the whole pack practically had him surrounded. And Stiles had a good grip on him too.

“What-?” he starts to say, confused as he reaches to touch the spot on his neck again. “Where is-?”

“When he injected you,” Kira explains, haltingly. “You grabbed onto him and he kind of-“

“Incinerated,” Scott finishes, staring at Stiles like he’s never seen him before. “You incinerated him, Stiles.”

Then he gestures helpfully at a pile of dust that the rest of the pack has carefully circumnavigated. 

Oh. 

So that’s what Derek meant. _What’s left_. Though to be accurate if that’s all that’s meant to be the remains of a fully grown human man well- there’s really not much. Nowhere near enough to fill an urn that’s for sure.

Huh.

Well that’s definitely a new development. Stiles was pretty sure he hadn’t made the conscious decision to destroy the guy. Nor were his thoughts anywhere adjacent to an impromptu killing spree. It just happened on its own.

“I did that? But-”

“We need to get you to Deaton,” Derek interrupts, urgency clear in his voice. “Right now. Can you stand?”

Stiles moves his toes experimentally expecting the very worst but they wiggle just fine. Everything seems peachy keen actually, besides the purple skin thing. This time he manages to get his feet under him even if he’s still a little unsteady. That isn’t that unusual though. Maybe only a little worse than what’s normal.

“Yeah- yeah I can-“

He stumbles to the side and Lydia practically dives away from him to avoid being touched. Oh. Right. He cremates people now apparently. That’s definitely going to do wonders for his self-esteem.

“Uh- sorry,” Stiles says awkwardly, stomach churning with some odd kind of emotion as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

Rejection probably. It definitely feels like rejection.

It’s strange not being allowed to touch. Stiles didn’t realise how much he relied on being the benign, powerless human that everyone and their dog could push around. Old men included. Everyone but Derek gives him a wide berth because he’s frustratingly consistent when he shouldn’t be even as they head back out to Stiles’ jeep but he barely notices that.

He’s too focused on the pile of ashes he dodges on the way over to his car because he still can’t quite get his head around it. That pile is all that’s left of the hunter who injected him with whatever dragon’s breath version of wolfsbane he wanted to use to kill Scott.

Only that outcome went nowhere near the realm of as planned.

Because Stiles incinerated someone instead. And that’s definitely not something that’s going to bite him in the ass later.

But with the current situation who knows?

  
  


Scott and Derek take the front of the jeep after Derek tosses Boyd the Camaro’s keys without another word. Kira squeezes in the middle, mostly near Scott’s lap and the rest of the pack clamber into their own cars respectively. 

Each of them shooting Stiles furtive looks every now and again like they’re expecting him to sprout wings or belch fire. Which probably wouldn’t be that far from the realm of possibility. So, fair enough.

Stiles gingerly takes a seat in the back of the jeep because they don’t know for sure if it’s just organic matter that his fingers turn to ash now. Except the needle he touched which is still intact and that Stiles put in his pocket for safekeeping. Although it had to have been designed to contain the murdery purple fire juice so that’s not really a definitive bit of evidence sorting him into the only-destroys-living-things category. 

Stiles is just glad his clothes haven’t turned to dust and he’s not sitting in the back of his jeep butt naked. With Derek in the front seat and Scott at the wheel.

So-

Things could be worse.

When Scott tries the ignition and it doesn’t automatically start, Stiles just sighs. “You’ve gotta crank the shift.”

Scott follows his advice and the second time the jeep is amenable to instruction and groans to life. And then they’re on the road and off to Deaton’s.

On the way there Scott keeps glancing at him in the revision mirror like he’s expecting Stiles to blow them up any second while Kira chatters nervously to interrupt the heavy silence like she’s fighting a battle with nothing but painstaking optimism as her weapon of choice. Derek thankfully has the tact not to turn in the passenger seat every five minutes to make sure nobody else is dead.

Stiles can’t seem to stop jiggling his leg though. He keeps doing an internal check of his body to see if there are any symptoms other than the destructo touch and new composite colour he’s sporting, but everything else still feels fine. 

Normal even. Thunderbirds are go. Stiles doesn’t even feel slightly nauseous. In fact, he’s kind of hungry it turns out. He’d kill for a burger actually. Or another bagel bacon sandwich combo. Except he’s pretty sure the whole purple parking lot murder thing got them banned for life. 

Which it turns out is something he can do now. The murder thing. Very easily it seems. 

For a human in a pack full of supernatural beings.

And hasn’t that got to be the most ironic thing in the universe?

  
  


When they get to the clinic Deaton is already standing in the parking lot waiting for them. Stiles barely gets the chance to climb out of the jeep after Scott, Kira and Derek get out first before Deaton is carefully brandishing a needle at him.

“Aw c’mon not another one,” Stiles grumbles, eyeing the needle warily.

Thankfully this time the liquid is clear as water. But Stiles isn’t holding out much hope it will make a difference.

“You’ll have to administer it yourself,” Deaton explains with a sense of urgency that Stiles isn’t really feeling. “Since Derek explained what happens if you’re touched.”

Stiles sighs and opens his palm for Deaton to delicately drop the needle into. Flat onto the open stretch of skin. It doesn’t vanish into a puff of smoke at first contact so that’s promising. But still jabbing himself with it doesn’t really feel top of the list for fun Friday night activities. Stiles clenches a fist around the needle anyway and looks up.

“When did Derek-?”

“Just make the injection. Quickly please, Stiles. In the vein is probably best. Derek said you weren’t showing symptoms of aconitine poisoning yet but this is the best method for treating-“

“Seems like Derek’s been saying a lot of things,” he mutters, shooting Derek a meaningful look that accuses him of snitching and well-meaning interference all at once.

Derek stares him down unblinkingly and confirms nothing. Stiles turns over the needle, thinks about how absolutely fine he feels, and hesitates.

Kira seems to be the first to understand why. “What’s in it exactly?” she asks, curious.

“Atropine.”

Stiles has done enough wolfsbane research to know it’s a method for treating normal aconite poisoning. But what about the irregular, magical side to the contents of what they introduced to his bloodstream? Because Stiles is pretty sure whatever they juiced him with wasn’t chemically grown. Or at least not all of it.

“I remember this. Weren’t the potential side effects along the lines of nausea, blurry vision, and delirious hallucinations or something?”

Deaton falters. And Stiles knows he’s on the money. “In some cases yes. But in this situation, we have no idea if the wolfsbane might be having a delayed effect on your body-“

“His heart rate hasn’t changed since that hunter died,” Derek interjects. “And it sounds- regular. Normal for him. He hasn’t had any other reaction since the parking lot and that was about fifteen minutes ago.”

Stiles glances over at Derek in surprise. He didn’t realise he was being so closely monitored beyond Scott’s noticeable peeks of concern in the revision mirror on the trip over here. It’s a wonder he didn’t drive them all into a ditch. Clearly Derek was just more subtle about it.

“Nevertheless this is the correct antidote to administer in the event of aconite poisoning and even if Stiles’ reactions might be delayed it’s important that we still cover all avenues of-“

Derek steps closer. “But how will it react with the magic? It can’t be normal wolfsbane they developed here. Not when the reaction was immediate. Stiles shouldn’t be taking-“

“Who are you, my doctor?” Stiles shoots back, before plunging the needle into the open crook of his arm without warning, right where he can see the rise of a vein. 

Though it isn’t necessarily an easy task amongst the purple.

“Wait-“

Derek takes another step, arm outstretched like he wanted to snatch the needle out of his hand but Stiles was quicker, pushing the plunger so the clear liquid disappears through the needle.

“Oh my _God_ , Stiles,” Kira breathes, eyes wide with dismay and maybe a little bit of morbid fascination.

Scott hovers anxiously at Deaton’s shoulder and they all watch for effect as Stiles slips the needle back out of his skin.

“Did you seriously just do that Stiles because Derek said you _can’t_?!” Scott demands, utterly disturbed by the prospect and looking every bit like someone who expects Stiles to spontaneously combust at any second.

“I’ve researched wolfsbane poisoning too,” Stiles counters in what he hopes is a reasonable and dignified tone. “And decided it was worth the risk. Annoying Derek didn’t factor into it.”

Derek turns sharply at the blip Stiles’ heart probably reveals.

“Okay, fine. It factored in a little. You know me- I like the simple joys in life.”

Kira giggles. Then slaps a hand over her mouth in horror. “I’m sorry. Wow that was horrible of me. This is just- stressful.”

Scott steps toward Kira in order to wrap a comforting arm around her shoulder and squeeze her gently but Stiles is barely paying attention to them. 

“So I guess if you die then,” says Derek, trademark scowl now at full power. “That stupid act of juvenile bitchiness would have been worth it.”

Stiles who has never been in the habit of backing down, faces that scowl square on and without remorse.

“You bet your ass it was.”

“Stiles,” Scott protests, glancing between the two of them like he’s not sure if he wants to be involved but his alpha-ness obligates him to. So it comes out sounding more shrill than authoritative.

Kira glances nervously between him and Derek too but Stiles has the feeling it has more to do with inquisitiveness. Since she’s one of the newest additions to the pack she’s probably interested in seeing them squabble. Easiest way to get to know a person is to watch them fight. 

“But looks like we’ll find out soon enough,” Stiles says with a shrug, focusing on his body and trying to feel if anything’s happening now that yet another foreign substance has been introduced to his blood stream.

This probably isn’t what his father meant when warning him of the dangers of gateway drugs.

But his heart feels like it’s still beating normally. It’s almost like he hasn’t done anything at all.

“We should have taken him to a hospital,” Derek is saying in the background, turning to face the others now, unleashing his eyebrows of disapproval and clenching his hands together. “Deaton’s not equipped to handle something like this.”

“And you think a regular hospital will be?” Scott fires back stubbornly, keen to argue logistics because there’s nothing physical for him to fight. “How would that help if half the hospital staff turned to dust trying to treat him?”

“It’s in his _blood_ , Scott. He needs something like a charcoal hemoperfusion and Deaton clearly doesn’t have that kind of emergency medical equipment to-“

Derek spins to face Stiles almost a split second after the first spasm rushes through him.

“Whoa.”

He feels his legs tremble. Then straighten.

“What is it?” Derek demands, crowding dangerously close as he alertly scans Stiles’ face. “How do you feel?”

Deaton takes a step closer as well, watching intently. Stiles clutches at his chest, surprised, but the sensation ebbs away pretty quickly. “Nothing,” he exhales, a little relieved. “Just went crazy hot then cold for a sec. It passed.”

“You’re still purple,” Scott points out.

Stiles flips him off but concedes to reality. No quick fixes today.

Deaton sighs.

“Perhaps you’d better come inside the clinic and we might be better able to observe- your condition.”

No time like the present.

  
  


Deaton doesn’t say anything in the first few minutes but his eyebrows climb high at the lack of results following the atropine injection and the stubborn, newfound colour scheme of Stiles’ skin. The rest of the pack, who arrived a few minutes ago, crams into the clinic behind him.

Well out of reach. They’re all quiet and sombre like it's someone’s funeral except for Isaac who's slurping down a Frosty.

Stiles glares at him.

“What?” Isaac wonders, with a little smirking grin. “We stopped at Wendy’s on the way here.”

And Stiles has to assume that means he rode with Jackson in the Porsche. Since he’s the only one who’d do something so obnoxious when the situation was this grave. Then Stiles seriously considers killing Isaac and Jackson for a brief satisfying second.

And realises he _can_ now. Effortlessly in fact.

“Oh dear,” Deaton says, distracting Stiles from Isaac and the urge to kill again and then the vet doesn’t say anything for five more minutes of utter useless and wildly disobliging silence.

Stiles knows for certain because he literally watches the clock tick over in the corner to occupy him while Deaton circles around his body like some adult man shaped bird of prey, quietly observing the situation while Scott frantically explains in detail everything that happened at his back and Isaac continues attacking his Frosty with relish.

“Stiles got between the hunter and he stabbed him in the neck with the needle and then Stiles started smouldering. This crazy purple light came out of his eyes and it was like the hunter couldn’t take the exposure because he pretty much turned to dust after that. Then Stiles dropped as if he was having a seizure and there was this kind of smoky light surrounding him like at a rave and that lasted about thirty seconds and when it was over it he- well… he looked just like this.”

Deaton’s eyes are critical and assessing but he wisely keeps his distance like everyone else.

“I hope there’s no swimsuit portion of this pageant,” Stiles mutters, shifting because he’s been standing in one place for too long and is starting to feel like he’s under a microscope.

Mostly because everyone in the room _is_ staring at him. Stiles has literally just discovered that werewolves don’t seem to need to blink as much as humans do. The result is- highly unnerving.

Joy.

Scott snorts and then shoots Stiles an apologetic look in spite of the fact that it was his masterfully crafted joke.

“Yes, well perhaps you should remove your clothing,” Deaton suggests, tapping absently at his chin.

“ _What_?” Stiles squawks, glancing immediately at Derek who seems startled and alarmed at being the one suddenly called upon following this instruction. “I’m not getting naked here. We’re just gonna assume I’m purple everywhere.”

Isaac breaks out into a wide grin. “But are you?”

Stiles makes a face at him but steps back and tugs his jeans and briefs away from his skin by the waistband to casually inspect his junk. He ignores the laughter and groans of irritation in favour of checking out what’s going on Down There.

Stiles is no expert but that is definitely a purple dick he is now in possession of. 

What a day. 

Suddenly it’s a good thing that he’s single. At least he’ll be the only one worrying about purple boners. Does that mean that Stiles can’t even touch himself? If he tried to jerk it would he melt his own dick off? Because that is not an existence that he can abide right now.

And here he was thinking he’d been punished enough already.

“Uh yes,” he agrees faintly. “Purple. Purple all over.”

Boyd laughs then. Loudly. Unexpectedly. The group mostly turns to him out of sheer disbelief. He’s usually one of the quite ones.

“Sorry,” he says but doesn’t elaborate.

Stiles is willing to admit being in possession of a purple combustion dick is pretty funny. Well. Would be funnier if it wasn’t currently attached to him that is.

Deaton has folded his arms now and continues to look thoughtful without offering any vital information. Which, like basically is his permanent default setting. Stiles never has the patience for this guy. 

At this point he’s willing to give WebMD a crack. Just because the results would be faster.

“But are you certain that this effect occurs upon contact with all organic material?” Deaton starts to ask just as Erica disappears out of the operating room and returns a second later helpfully carrying a potted plant.

She sets it onto the metal table with an impressive kind of flourish and then turns to Stiles expectantly.

The rest of the pack is watching him too so Stiles’ sighs and reaches out with one finger to touch the tip of a plant leaf. Maybe a little curious himself since he was blinded with pain the first time it happened.

There’s a strange hum in the air like a fly just flew into an electric bug zapper and the plant turns grey and then literally crumples into _dust_. In the span of a few seconds. 

Stiles jerks his finger back in a mixture of horror and fascination as silence settles heavily around the table again. Somebody gasps but Stiles can’t tell who.

And Scott literally runs out of the room.

“There goes our mighty alpha,” Stiles gripes, rolling his eyes while Jackson starts laughing again.

“Stilinski, you absolute freak,” he says with undisguised glee. “Now your appearance will finally match your personality.”

“Shut up, Jackson,” Allison snaps looking very much like she wants to hit him but he's not within her reach.

But Stiles has bigger fish to fry than the familiar douchebag tune of Jackson Whittemore. Especially since he’s been given the superpower of murder. Untraceable murder at that. Nobody but the pack would know it was him that did it. 

“What do you reckon will happen if put my hand on your Porsche?” 

Jackson’s expression wavers and Erica smirks at him. “It wouldn’t work. You arrived here in your shitty beat up jeep and it’s still standing.”

Stiles isn’t ready to give up on putting the fear in Jackson though. “But how do you know if I actually touched it? I’m still wearing clothes. Direct skin contact might not be the only thing that triggers it.”

Jackson opens his mouth, pulls a face and then closes it again, eyeing him suspiciously. Stiles is pretty sure it’s just living things he destroys now but Jackson deserves to rethink his life choices a little.

“You wouldn’t-“

“Want to test it out?” Stiles wonders optimistically, already edging towards the door.

Jackson darts forward, real alarm in his eyes. “Don’t you fucking dare, Stilinski.”

But Stiles steps into his path to block his advance and Jackson reels back to stay out of his range. And suddenly Stiles realises the repulsive, miraculous ingenuity of it all.

“You can’t stop me,” he says, grasping the sudden shift in power.

No one can stop him from doing _anything_. Now the werewolves can’t use their natural gifts to push him around or make him feel breakable. 

Now _they’re_ breakable.

Stiles can’t believe how many doors have just opened for him. So many opportunities. He sees the chances for kidnapping the weak, defenceless human now plunging into the low percentages. Stiles isn’t a math guy but he’s pretty sure he gets kidnapped a lot.

Like a _lot_. 

This definitely changes things. 

“Ohhhhohohoho,” he says when Jackson freezes, and backs away when Stiles steps closer in an effort to taunt him. “I think I like this actually. I like this a lot.”

Scott returns a second later when Stiles is still crowing and flexing, stowing away his phone and looking up at the group expectantly. “What did I miss?”

“Stiles has already gone mad with power,” says Derek, blithely from his corner of the room. His arms are folded with trademark condemnation and he sounds way too casual about the turn of events. 

Unfortunately, even though Stiles is no longer in fear of dying mode, the situation still hasn’t quite switched over into amusing territory for the rest of them. 

Killjoys.

“Excuse me, I am savouring this moment actually, Derek. A moment that you’re ruining by the way.”

Jackson still looks scared, and the others exchange glances while Lydia mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘megalomaniac'.

“I’ll have you know I’d make a fantastic supervillain,” Stiles argues, still sifting through the shitty factors to find the positive benefits of murdery purple hands. “Solely because I-“

“Kill people’s plants?” Kira finishes, awkwardly glancing over at the remains of what used to brighten up Deaton’s office.

“That was my favourite fern,” Deaton quietly declares and Stiles glances at Scott for clarification that such a ridiculous statement just came out of his boss’ mouth.

But Scott only shrugs.

“You could have just told me not to touch it,” Stiles points out sensibly, squirming inside with something he refuses to believe might be guilt. 

Not about the dumb plant, but the instant devastation he’s currently overwhelmingly and inescapably capable of. 

He can destroy with one touch now. 

This is going to complicate things _so much_.

  
  


“So how come he’s not,” Erica makes this baffling hand gesture that could literally encompass anything. “You know, dead?”

Stiles blinks. And looks at Deaton, somehow wondering why he hadn’t really thought of that himself in all the excitement of the evening.

“I’m not sure exactly,” Deaton admits which is not remotely comforting. “Perhaps it was easier to withstand because he is human?”

“But that hunter died,” Lydia argues, almost immediately cutting through Deaton’s theory with logical precision. “He was definitely human and Stiles disintegrated him.”

“Yeah but that was only after the purple goo was in his system,” Scott counters as if that’s reasonable. “Maybe it was only deadly once it had a host?”

Stiles really doesn’t want to think of the wolfsbane strain as needing a host. Too many alien movies have proven that’s not a thing a person wants to be. Not if they wish to avoid the creation of a spontaneous chest cavity for the alien to crawl out of when it decides it has had enough of said host.

Stiles is so _not_ a host.

And he’s pretty sure the strain wasn’t exactly alive when it was injected into him.

“Or it’s just because of Stiles,” Jackson intercedes, content to blame Stiles for his own problems. “We all know he’s done weird not-human things before-“

“That was _twice_ ,” Stiles protests. “Not exactly a nebulous display of unfathomable magic.”

“Well whatever it was let’s just be glad it did work on him,” Kira says firmly, expression tightening at the thought and ending the conversation abruptly.

No one speaks as they all consider how else it could have ended for Stiles. Derek quietly shifts his weight and then unfolds his arms as if he can’t help but move through the stillness.

“I’ll see if I can analyse what strain of wolfsbane you’ve been injected with from a live sample,” Deaton says, after a moment, inspecting Stiles’ skin closely. “But it’s very likely that the colouring will start to fade as the wolfsbane slowly works itself out of your system. We should have someone monitoring you for the first 24 hours though- just to be safe.”

Interesting how he didn’t bother mentioning a ballpark for that time-wise. That’s plenty comforting. Stiles isn’t even pretending he’s not a lot nervous about that.

“And how long will I be, you know?” Stiles asks, wiggling his fingers suggestively. “Radioactive or whatever.”

Deaton leans in, and sniffs Stiles’ fingers of all things without touching them. “I’d say the colouring and the extreme reaction upon contact with your skin are related. It’s my assumption that they will fade together.”

“But nobody should touch him in the meantime?” Derek interjects all of a sudden as if he needs this information to be hammered into the others. Not like they haven’t already been scared shitless by what Stiles did to that fern. With one finger. “Right?”

Deaton shrugs quite casually considering the dire circumstances. 

“Not unless you wish to cease to exist.”

And isn't that a wild concept? The rest of the pack shuffles awkwardly at the news, but Stiles can see the mental calculation of the current risky climate written all over their faces. He’s basically been banished to the corners of their social Siberia. 

Nobody in their right mind wants to be turned to dust.

Deaton moves over to one of the cupboards and pulls out an empty sample cup, popping it open and setting it on the table so Stiles can pick it up. For a second he wonders what kind of sample Deaton is after but when he makes the appropriate gestures towards his mouth Stiles is able to fill in the blanks.

Spitting in the cup is not the most taxing event of the evening but Stiles still struggles. When he tries to get all of his saliva into the container, his hand is trembling so much that as he wipes his mouth he ends up spilling a drop on the floor as he sets it on the counter top. A second later and there’s this sharp hissing sound and everyone looks down to see that his saliva has burned a hole through the floor.

The _concrete_ floor.

____

Jackson swears but Stiles isn’t able to look away from the hole in the ground as the others react around him. He has acid spit too? Does that mean his pee is going to burn away their plumbing when he tries to use the bathroom?

____

When he finally looks up, the rest of the pack is staring at the container somehow housing his spit without melting.

____

“What’s that made of?” Lydia wonders, almost unwillingly fascinated.

____

Deaton is staring at it thoughtfully. “Plastic.”

____

“Oh God,” says Allison suddenly. “They’re not kidding. It really is gonna outlast us all.”

____

Stiles steps forward to squeeze the lid on, careful to step back out of reach of everyone else. Not like there’s much chance of that though since everyone is standing on the opposite side of the table in order to stay as far away from him as they possibly can. 

____

Except Deaton but that’s more professional curiosity than trying to spare his feelings. And also Derek, who Stiles has already established, possesses no self-preservation instinct.

____

“Hold on,” Isaac wonders, after the silence settles around them for too long. “If your saliva is purple does that mean that your-“

____

“Nope,” Scott says, face cringing just as Stiles shrugs and says, “Probably.”

____

“That is so weird,” Kira says amazed before catching Stiles’ expression. “Oh, uh sorry.”

____

Awkward silence doesn’t last for long around the pack. Though Scott does shoot Kira a half wounded expression like she’s the one who personally brought up the prospect of Stiles’ purple jizz to the general conversation.

____

“So if you knocked someone up,” Erica wonders hypothetically a second later. “Does that mean your kid would be purple?”

____

“Purple progeny,” Stiles speculates, considering the idea and the altogether nightmarish ramifications. “I feel like at this stage literally anything is possible.”

____

“Except the girl you try to knock up would probably explode first,” Scott interjects helpfully.

____

Stiles turns to stare at him as Boyd and Isaac erupt into snickers in the background.

____

“Thanks, Scott.”

____

__  
  
_ _

____

The worst part is having to drive home and show his dad.

____

This isn’t another- look I fell into Mrs Lindell’s thornbush as I was attempting to sneak out so me and Scott could hit up an R-rated movie and now I need your help plucking thorns from my butt- or an- I heard on the police radio that there was an 11-99 and 11-41 so I drove out to check you didn't get shot but whoo guess you’re still alive can you get me out of the speeding ticket Parrish just wrote me, love you, bye- kind of level problem.

____

Though it is definitely in the top five.

____

Scott jumps into the jeep when the others peel off their separate ways to perform the mysterious and unseen acts of werewolves with newfound free personal time minus the threat of instant death on the horizon.

____

Although Stiles is doing his very best to pretend that he doesn’t see Derek lingering by the Camaro watching them both. As if he somehow needs visible confirmation that Stiles isn’t going to immediately descend upon the town in a touch-induced murdering spree.

____

Like that’s even a primary aim of the agenda right now. Stiles shoots him a glare just for that lack of faith alone. 

As if out of the whole pack suddenly he’s the one with the dangerous and self-destructive tendencies. Yeah right.

____

Now that he’s Not Dying or Close To Death, Scott hands over the keys and his driving jeep privileges are thankfully restored. But that only seems to open up the floodgates for Scott to stare at him openly from the passenger seat for the entire drive back home instead.

____

Which is weird and not fun at all.

____

“I’m pretty sure it’s not going anywhere dude,” he says, irritably, when Scott somehow stops blinking for several minutes in his quest to truly understand the meaning of the colour purple.

____

He rears back a bit, contritely and starts blinking like a normal humanish person. “Sorry I just- I know this kind of craziness is what we deal with daily now but- like- this is insane, man. You’re _purple_.“

____

Way to sum it up Scott.

____

“Noted.”

____

Stiles is trying his best to ignore the consequences of everything that went down and how it will be very much impacting his life for the near and indefinite future. 

They can’t expect him to go to school like this can they? Some asshole at George Washington is gonna try and touch his skin or ignore the warnings not to and then they’ll have disintegrated dumbass scattered across rolling green hills of The Vern which is not at all ideal.

____

And what is his dad going to say? He’s been fairly chill after the supernatural exposure event but this might be the straw that finally breaks the camel’s back. And Stiles doesn’t want any part of that.

____

The choice is taken out of his hands when he pulls into his own driveway however.

____

He doesn’t turn off the ignition though, just lets the jeep sit idle, unwilling to accept his fate even now. His dad is probably still at work, there’s many hours before this confrontation will occur but it’s still something he’s not mentally prepared for.

____

“Maybe I just crash on your couch until this is all over and we tell my dad I’m going on an extended vacation at a summer spa in Canada for spring break.”

____

Scott does this thing where he doesn’t try to question Stiles’ logic and squirms instead. It is the squirm of the guilty.

____

And Stiles finally notices the cruiser sitting in the open garage like his father just arrived home. Which is definitely an unusual time for him. Because Stiles was pretty sure he was on a patrol shift tonight and that meant getting home at 2 am.

____

“You didn’t _call him_?” Stiles gasps, betrayed and piecing it together all at once. Scott didn’t run out of Deaton’s room to panic, he ran out to make a phone call of betrayal!

____

“You roasted a human man and a plant!” Scott protests woefully. “It was definitely time to call your dad! And Deaton said somebody had to monitor you for 24 hours!”

____

“And it didn’t occur to you that you could do the monitoring part?”

____

Scott drops his gaze and idly fingers the strap of his seat belt, not meeting his eyes. 

____

“Well- you know, I have to work tomorrow.”

____

“I can’t believe you,” Stiles mutters irritably, switching off the engine with a angry jerk of his wrist. “You ran out of the room so you could tell on me to my dad. What’ll this do to his heart?”

____

Scott’s eyes go wide with absolute horror.

____

“You never said he was having heart problems!”

____

“Well he definitely will now when he sees _me_ ,” Stiles shoots back, entirely incongruously as he climbs out of the car. “Probably gonna have a coronary. Thanks a lot, Scott. You killed my dad.”

____

Scott scrambles out after him. “I was worried. I thought I could help!”

____

Storming towards the front door in a fit of anger seems like the only appropriate response. Even if Stiles ruins the effect by turning back to glare at his so called best friend. “Enjoy walking home and ruminating over that failure then.”

____

Scott squirms again. The effect is even more bizarre while he’s standing on the spot. Stiles’ eyes begin to narrow just as a second later Lydia’s car pulls up to the curb facing his house with Allison clearly visible in the front seat.

____

He can see Kira in the back too, obviously here to pick up Scott now that he’s gotten their murder machine home safely.

____

Goddamn it.

____

“Screw you man.”

____

“Sorry,” Scott calls, already jogging away with a jaunty, apologetic wave. “It’ll all be fine. I promise.”

____

Easy for him to say.

____

Stiles lets out an almighty groan and does his best to resist zapping the rosebush planted either side of the front steps (a previous enemy of his from another failed sneaking out attempt), keys jangling as he blazes past. His father would not appreciate the gesture considering the effort he puts into the garden on the rare weekends when he’s not at work.

____

He doesn’t even get to stick his key into the door before it’s swinging wide and his father is looming in the open doorway.

____

Uh oh.

____

“Explain, Stiles.”

____

Stiles takes two steps back for safety.

____

“No touching me first things first,” Stiles says, making no effort to step inside because that would be nearer to his dad and also impossible to squeeze past without turning him to ashes.

____

“You’re purple,” his father states, taking the sight of it in properly. “Scott said so over the phone- but I really didn’t want to believe it.”

____

“Believe it, daddio, cause this is my new reality until murder touch hands wear off and I can reintegrate myself back into society as a upstanding but belligerent citizen. Here’s hoping it sorts it shit out before I have to go back to DC.”

____

His father looks at his hands more closely while Stiles fiddles absentmindedly with his keys.

____

“So- you turn things to dust now then?”

____

Obviously Scott gave him some sort of low down over their secret phone call of treachery.

____

“Living things,” Stiles corrects pointedly, trying not to think too deeply about the whole acid spit through concrete thing. “And I really think you don’t want to see it.”

____

He remembers suddenly how the rest of the pack had backed away from him afterward. “ _Really_.”

____

His father is somehow both fazed and not fazed.

____

“I might take your word on that,” he agrees quite readily. “But after I have a drink first.”

____

He steps back and starts retreating towards the kitchen, shaking his head almost in disbelief or acceptance Stiles can’t be sure. So he just follows meekly inside and shuts the door behind them. Rather not have too many people see him out on the street and call the cops on him or something. 

That's the last thing they need.

____

“Me too,” he sighs, following after his father.

____

His dad turns to stare at him once he’s grabbed out the bourbon and it takes a second of almost protest before he caves and fetches another glass.

____

“You know what, sure,” he agrees unexpectedly. “Don’t think I could screw you up any more than this.”

____

He gestures at Stiles’ everything as if he’s making a fair point. It should be insulting but weirdly Stiles gets it.

____

“Wow, thanks,” he mutters sarcastically as his father sets down a modest nip of bourbon like he’s still under the impression Stiles has never pilfered one of his bottles and snuck out with Scott to get drunk post Allison break up.

____

Or on any of the multiple other occasions.

____

“I’m really hoping you remember that next week is the anniversary of my birth, and I will be considered a fully-fledged adult by law.”

____

“Don’t remind me,” his father shoots back, still pouring. “I’ll never sleep again.”

____

Stiles rolls his eyes but accepts the meagre amount as his father retrieves cola from the fridge and adds it to their glasses, pretending that he doesn’t drink it neat or maybe just hiding the fact that he’s sharing alcohol with his underage son.

____

Now it looks like they’re sharing coke.

____

Everything normal in the Stilinski household here. Besides the purple, destructive teenager with an unmistakeable increase beyond the human limits of power. And hormones probably knowing his luck.

____

Stiles takes a sip of his drink before he gets it.

____

“Oh my god,” he gasps, ignoring his father’s sudden expression of alarm at the sound. “I’m goddamn Thanos. _Gross_.”

____

__  
  
_ _

____

It’s midnight and Stiles is standing in front of the toilet bowl staring down at his dick.

____

He needs to pee first and foremost, but sudden disintegration touch has made him somewhat reluctant and wary to handle his own equipment. He managed to get his pants off without touching the area itself but considering the consequences he figures some reluctance is… only fair.

____

Except his bladder is really complaining at this point and he’s already touched himself earlier without somehow blowing up. But still, this is his dick. Stiles isn’t really willing to take any chances. Which is a completely reasonable stance to take in this situation, probably the most cautious one if any.

____

Except well- the alternatives.

____

When Stiles realises it comes down to calling up Deaton and asking a grown man if he can safely touch his own penis without it disintegrating, he finally makes the decision.

____

“Here’s hoping,” he sighs and reaches down to take a hold of himself.

____

Stiles barely gets the second to be relieved his dick doesn’t turn to dust before he’s already desperately emptying his bladder.

____

When the stream hits the toilet bowl he abruptly remembers what happened with his spit and the hole in the concrete but after a brief spark of panic, surprisingly nothing melts. Which brings about another wave of crushing relief- Stiles didn’t really want to contend with the idea of possibly leaving radioactive shits around.

____

He flushes and washes his hands before flicking the light switch off and is heading back to his bedroom when he spots out the window something black in the space in front of the Seberg house. The one that is directly across the street from their house and is usually empty. 

____

And one Stiles knows for a fact is meant to be vacant because the Sebergs leave obnoxious messages taped under the windshield wipers whenever someone parks there and have been known to call the cops on occasion. Stiles’ dad is not at all a fan of their neighbours across the way.

____

Stiles steps closer to the window and squints narrowly through the darkness. It takes him about thirty seconds to realise what it is.

____

Then he walks quickly into his bedroom, snagging his hoodie off the back of the computer chair and not bothering with pants or shoes. He just throws on the jumper, which is big enough that it leaves only a small strip of his boxers visible beneath but Stiles is hardly worried about fashion when his skin now clashes with literally everything.

____

He heads down the staircase and passes his father asleep sitting up on the couch where he’d insisted he’d stay in order to watch over Stiles all night. Stiles had waited down there too, pretending he’d sleep on the roll out mattress his father had set up, but as soon as he started nodding off he'd retreated back upstairs to his own bed.

____

His father meant well but Stiles knew he couldn’t sleep in the vicinity of his dad knowing that a stray elbow in the night will take him out for good. Stiles has been known to kick in his sleep. At least his dad will be well rested in the morning, since he doesn’t stir when Stiles reaches the front door, unlocks it and slips outside.

____

To cross the road and reach where the Camaro is parked.

____

At first glance it looks like it’s empty, but Stiles isn’t stupid enough to let that deter him. Not when it might involve Derek Hale. 

And unsolicited lurking.

____

At second glance he realises the owner of said car is currently occupying the back seat, stretched out as much as possible considering it’s not particularly roomy to begin with and Derek is by no means small.

____

At third glance he realises said owner is looking directly at him.

____

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

____

Derek only raises an eyebrow and gestures at the rolled down window. Stiles leans his head inside in order to glare at him properly. “Got tired of prowling round the high school, did you?” he wonders nastily, put off and unsettled to be the sudden, unexpected focus of Derek Hale’s attention.

____

Derek doesn’t shift his position and Stiles refuses to be impressed he managed to make something look so restful when it’s more than likely the complete opposite. Werewolves do not fit comfortably in the back seat of a Camaro it seems.

____

“Since Scott wasn’t going to be around,” answers Derek just as bluntly as he takes a dig at Stiles in turn. “Figured a change of scenery.”

____

Stiles’ anger shifts. Off and away from Derek, who clearly is concerned about his well-being enough to sit outside in an uncomfortable backseat all night just to make sure Stiles doesn’t choke on his own blood or something.

____

Not to mention the fact that it is freezing outside and Derek seems to be wearing the same thing he wore earlier in the evening: jeans and leather jacket. Not exactly fit for cold weather. Hard to be resentful of all of that when Scott didn’t even shoot him a follow up ‘you good?’ text after dropping him off hours and hours ago.

____

Suddenly all of Stiles’ righteous anger feels- misplaced.

____

“The pack was here too,” Derek says suddenly as if Stiles needs to be informed he wasn’t the only one lurking. “For most of the night before I sent them home. They wanted to check in on you.”

____

The pack probably means the very few of them who actually still listen to Derek- Boyd and Erica maybe. The rest is a wash. 

____

“You gonna come inside then?” he asks, with a sigh, already turning his face away so Derek can’t see his expression. 

____

He doesn’t want to embarrass himself.

____

“Since you obviously plan to stay out here all night monitoring my vital signs.”

____

Stiles can’t believe that’s a sentence he has to say now to Derek Hale. And not even remotely in jest.

____

Derek doesn’t move.

____

“But I’m so comfortable here.”

____

Stiles snorts and drags his head out of the window, already turning and padding back barefoot towards the house, wincing a little on the uneven asphalt. A second later there’s the sound of the door closing and Derek is charging up the driveway after him, no hint of reluctance on his face.

____

As if he’s the one doing Stiles the favour by camping out in his house all night.

____

God, Stiles knows he would have certain feelings about that, certain breathless, shuddery feelings, if he wasn’t so certain Derek’s here to monitor the freakshow just as he would have done for literally anyone else in the pack being turned into a purple death ray.

____

Since there’s no relying on Scott to come through under the crunch.

____

Also, Derek’s super annoying when he decides he’s helping someone because then there’s no getting rid of him. And he’s pretty sure that Derek’s seen his sorry excuse of a contaminated existence and decided he needs all the assistance he can get.

____

Stiles hits the front door and leaves it ajar for Derek without turning back, as he slips into the living room and edges past his father’s sleeping form. Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles isn’t too sure he’s even still following him until he reaches his bedroom, turns around and Derek is right there.

____

“You’re not actually going to watch me sleep?” he demands in disbelief, keeping his voice low so as not to wake his dad.

____

“What did you think I was doing outside?” Derek shoots back, voice quiet in the dim. “Playing candy crush?”

____

Stiles rolls his eyes and flops back onto his bed without bothering to look at him. He can only barely see Derek’s outline in the dark anyway.

____

“Yeah but watching me in my room is much more creepy.”

____

“I could go downstairs with your dad,” Derek suggests but it’s clear from his tone he’s not really suggesting it at all. 

____

The sarcasm is strong with this one.

____

“Ugh shut up,” Stiles says around a yawn. “There’s extra blankets in the linen closet next to the master bedroom down the hall. Do _not_ wake up my dad. Seriously.”

____

He yawns again, eyes half falling shut. “Or better yet just slink out of here in the morning before he even wakes up.”

____

Derek makes an exasperated sound. “And why am I hiding from your dad again?”

____

“Because you are a grown man and I am by law not considered a grown man. And even if Dad is slightly more chill with the supernatural these days he probably would not be chill to find out the Keyser Söze of the werewolf world slept in my bedroom-“

____

“First of all you are greatly over-exaggerating my notoriety. I haven’t even been arrested that many times and I am not some scary story all werewolves tell their children. Secondly, you’re purple, Stiles. And you should probably be dead twice already today so I think the circumstances are a little understandable.”

____

“God shut up,” Stiles groans, unwilling to argue when he could be sleeping instead. “Enough, fine, you win. But you deal with the awkward Dad convo in the morning. And you can also expect to find a firmly passive aggressive and rude post-it under your windshield from the neighbours’ house you parked in front of because the Sebergs are assholes.”

____

“Fine.”

____

And then Stiles, whose brain is only barely struggling with the contradictory presence of acid spit but not acid urine considering both are fluids of his body and should have the same result, digs himself under the covers and lets his eyelids close.

____

He’s asleep before he comes to any real conclusions besides Derek lurking in his bedroom somewhere like a bizarre sickness companion and the one blessed fact that he didn’t burn his dick off.

____

Small favours.

____

__  
  
_ _

____

He dreams about floating red fish amid clouds stained with purple and Scott standing alone in an abandoned parking lot holding out a breakfast sandwich like it’s the goddamn One Ring.

____

When he wakes up it’s to the light pouring through the cracks of the window blinds he forgot to close last night. Any hope that yesterday was a dream is lost when he blearily raises his hand to block the sun and sees nothing but purple.

____

His last prayer of the whole thing being one of those 24 hour supernatural rashes goes up in a puff of disappointing smoke.

____

The room is empty too, the only evidence that Derek was there at all is the folded up blanket left neatly atop his computer chair. Stiles wonders when he left. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to kick the bucket in the night? Or did he wait until the sun rose and he could hear the sheriff pottering around downstairs to make his morning coffee before work?

____

Stiles rolls out of bed and stumbles warily into the bathroom wondering if he even wants to look into the bathroom mirror. Considering how things have been going lately that’s just setting himself up to fail.

____

Then again preparing for further setbacks doesn’t really seem so impossible. At this point how could he possibly sink any lower anyway? 

____

He yawns and rubs at his eyes, struggling to wake up fully as he comprehends the verdict. Definitely still purple. Nothing new there.

____

Except-

____

Oh. _That’s_ definitely new.

____

Apparently life has some strong initiative because when Stiles finally puts on his adult pants and inspects himself not only is he still entirely purple all over but his chest has freshly developed its own decoration.

____

Vines to be precise.

____

They curl across the skin of his collarbones flowing down his chest and along the happy trail climbing above his underwear. 

Mouth open, Stiles manages to kick the door shut and step out of his boxers to see where else the vines have spread.

____

They’re dark purple, much darker than the current colour of his skin somehow. More eggplant than grape tones this time and in the light they almost pass off as tattoos. It oddly reminds him of roots from the way it’s spread on his skin. There’s a few buds unfurled in amongst them and if Stiles is hazarding a wild guess they’re absolutely wolfsbane flowers. 

____

Honestly what the hell.

____

“Are these permanent?” Stiles asks the universe at large, looking skyward as if the ceiling might bring the appropriate answers raining down from above with enough prompting. 

____

Then after a beat, he grumbles to himself, “Why was I expecting an answer to that?”

____

The vines aren’t even coming out his neck as Stiles originally predicted, if factoring in that that was the literally entry point of all this purple destructo bullshit and perhaps that should mean something. If anything the vines appear to emerge from his stomach and spread slowly outward. It reaches his thighs, and stops just above his knees and when Stiles turns around there are vines and flowers trailing down his spine as well, all the way down to the back of his legs.

____

There are also vines on his fucking ass. Which seems like it should be an ancillary fact right now in wake of the whole new tattoos thing but really, _his ass_. 

____

Stiles cannot believe the level of bizarreness his life has descended into. Kitsune possession sure, but getting pumped up on wolfsbane until his skin and hair turns a brilliant shade of mauve and he’s grown goddamn vines on his ass overnight has finally journeyed into the realm of Too Much.

____

He made fun of Scott’s tattoo in the past. And that was some ugly two lines band that went around his arm during which Stiles suffered two hours of Scott’s bitching only for it to vanish instantly from his skin afterward.

____

It came back but Stiles wasn’t shy with his opinion of it. This seems a lot like karmic retribution for that. Because now he’s a royal purple, vined branded freak. Alls he need is to grow a horn, lose an eye, fly around and start eating people and he’ll be the human embodiment of that annoying earworm of a novelty song. 

____

If these are going to be permanent, and that many vines can grow overnight, does that mean more will turn up tomorrow? Is Stiles going to end up with vines permanently tattooed on his face now? Considering he got this in the line of best friend and whatever the hell Derek is protective duty, the resulting effects seem a little underserved.

____

That’ll teach him to try and look out for the other guys. He’s never doing the self-sacrifice thing ever again. Everyone else can get fucked. Though, better than being instantly incinerated like the hunter who stabbed him in the first place so maybe he shouldn’t really complain. 

____

At least he’s not dead. That’s the bare minimum of a positive take he can gather from this entire situation.

____

And that ain’t much.

____

Stiles drags his boxers back on because he can’t look at himself any longer without needing another stiff drink and his dad locks up his liquor cabinet nowadays and would make substantial efforts to impede his goal.

____

When he walks out of the bathroom his father is approaching to check up on him, climbing up the stairs in uniform, newspaper in hand and a mug full of coffee. Once his dad catches sight of him they stop and stare at each other from opposite ends of the hall like they’re in a wild west shoot out.

____

His father who it seems does not approve of discovering tattoos on his underage son.

____

“You got tattoos?” he demands evenly in his trying-not-to-actually-combust-in-anger-voice. 

____

Uh oh. That’s not a great one as Dad Tones go.

____

“I didn’t,” Stiles says rather level-headedly he thinks, with only the barest hint of panic. “I’m pretty sure I grew them.”

____

His dad looks down at the mug of coffee and paper in his hands first like he needs to reassess that reality is still in perfect working order before tackling this new predicament.

____

“You grew them?” he repeats evenly, not sounding like he wants to believe but being familiar enough with supernatural Beacon Hills now to know he has no choice.

____

The days of full blown scepticism has long since flown out the window in their household. “Yeah, Dad, what with being injected full of strange wolfsbane that gives me the recent power of incineration via touch,” he says patiently, gesturing at himself. “I’m no expert on this but I am purple. And I guess I can grow tattoos now.”

____

The freeze frame of his dad’s stiff body suddenly becomes unstuck now that he has assessed the situation and decided to stand down and disengage parent mode. 

Then his mouth lifts slightly at the corner.

____

“Now Stiles, you know it’s never a parent’s place to comment on their child’s physical appearance.”

____

Stiles stares at him open mouthed when it becomes clear that his father is trying his best not to laugh. “Are you joking? Did you just make a funny about my currently horrific and possible irreversible plight?”

____

“Purple’s a very attractive colour,” his father says, completely straight faced. “You look very- uh striking.”

____

“You- you dick!” Stiles says pointing at him accusingly. “I’m literally Mystique from X-men right now and here’s my own father cracking wise about it. I swear to god I’ve never been so betrayed in my life.”

____

His dad takes an unconcerned sip from his mug. It’s very dissatisfying to watch.

____

“Oh, come on now,” he soothes, in a fruitless attempt after making Stiles wait for it. “Deaton said it would wear off within a month, right? At the very least you’ll come out with fond memories of your time as a Furby.”

____

“I am not fluffy,” Stiles protests, aghast. “And he said a month minimum. He was vague enough not to mention how long this might last me. Which is exactly what I wanted to hear- what any person would be delighted to hear, really, in this situation. So yeah thanks for that. I guess for now I’m the secret purple son you lock in the basement.”

____

His father turns on his heel with a roll of his eyes. 

____

“We don’t have a basement, Stiles. And a little horror child jumping about that most of the town knows by name isn’t really much of a secret.”

____

Stiles stomps on after him, careful to keep a safe five metre radius. “Little horror child? Excuse you I am in the final stages of teen adolescence. I have man muscle. The muscle of a grown man.”

____

His father twist his head around to take another look at him. Then pauses and reassesses with some hint of surprise. “Huh. You do.”

____

The way he raises his eyebrows shows he’s generally astonished by this fact. Stiles knows he’s lean okay, and gangly, he’s not denying that, but muscle development shouldn’t be the cause of such amazement. He’s deceptively lean okay?

____

And he’d have to have some affects fitness-wise from running for his life half the time. That’s like science.

____

“You could sound less surprised. I run with literal werewolves and away from big things trying to kill me. And I played Lacrosse.”

____

“Yes, but you weren’t any good at it.”

____

It’s a no holds barred kind of morning, it seems.

____

Stiles tenses his lips together in an effort to avoid saying something rude. “My own father. In my time of suffering-“

____

“C’mon Time and Suffering,” his father says. “I made you coffee.”

____

Hmmm. That’s an offer he can get behind.

____

It’s the kind of thing Stiles needs right now and will probably be enough to buy forgiveness for the near future. 

Absolutely. So he yawns again and follows his father back downstairs towards the kitchen. Still keeping that safe distance because he’s not stupid.

____

“Fine, but I resent all of this.”

____

“Duly noted.”

____

Well at least there’s coffee.

____

__  
  
_ _

____

Lydia comes over at some stage after his father leaves for work and Stiles retreats back to bed and manages to fall asleep again.

____

Stiles does his best not to resent the fact that turning purple is what finally captured her interest enough to bother coming over to visit him alone when he’s invited her over like a thousand times in the past with no result. To be fair, Stiles’ longstanding crush had been in full effect then, Lydia had probably been able to sense the desperation.

____

“I figured Scott would have forgotten to come and check on you,” she explains, moving cautiously past Stiles and into the kitchen to make herself coffee.

____

“Yeah well,” grumbles Stiles, wishing even now that that overwhelmingly accurate fact about his best friend didn’t make him feel it like a kidney punch every time. “Scott is but a basic bitch.”

____

Lydia actually turns back toward him so he can properly see her rolling her eyes. Clearly she is in the know. She pulls out two mugs from the cupboard without asking and Stiles marvels at how incredible it is that Lydia Martin is an nearly every day fixture in his life now.

____

Epic romance aside, Stiles has to admit he’s glad it turned out this way. He’d rather have her friendship than no Lydia at all.

____

“You let him get away with way too much, you know,” she continues on, dropping a fairly serious truth bomb for so early in the day.

____

Stiles actually leans back in his chair with a pained groan. So it’s to be one of _those_ mornings is it.

____

“Well we all know I’m the better friend so…”

____

Stiles means it as a joke when he says it but then something happens with his voice while he’s speaking and it falls flat and feels world-weary and then just ends up sounding too much like the truth.

____

“You are,” Lydia counters, matter of fact. “Not like it’s a competition but you are. So if you felt like maybe that was something you wanted to talk to Scott about-”

____

“It is way too early for this kind of talk.”

____

Lydia purses her lips and then glances at the clock hanging on the wall opposite that clearly states it’s nearly two in the afternoon. His father had long since gone to work and Stiles went back to bed in natural protest of his new circumstances. When she rang the doorbell Stiles woke up hunched over a drooling pillow, one leg hugging the side of his mattress for dear life with no idea what year it was.

____

Stiles ignores all of this and ploughs on. “Look I know it might sound weird for me to say this- but right now Scott really isn’t that high on the priority list.”

____

“Fair,” she agrees and turns back to busy herself with the coffee.

____

“So- uh what’s like going on with you lately?” he wonders, playing with a frayed edge on their countertop and hoping against hope for a change of topic.

____

Lydia pauses in her movements and slowly spins back to face him again. “Is this some weird way of asking if I’m still with Jackson?”

____

Stiles startles out of his focus on the counter. “What? No!”

____

She looks at him carefully for a second, then narrows her eyes before nodding in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought. You finally let go of that crush on me.”

____

She doesn’t say it arrogantly but more like stating facts about climate change or the earth being round. Stiles gets it. Who wouldn’t fall in love with Lydia Martin given the chance?

____

“I uh do not know what it is that you are referring to,” Stiles counters because he still has some pride left. “… but yes.”

____

Lydia shrugs. “I figured. You don’t stare at me as intensely as before.”

____

Wow. And here Stiles thought he was subtle with his affections.

____

“Right. Uh sorry?”

____

“Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t- well alright it was creepy. But compared to other guys it could’ve been worse. You just looked at me like I’d invented the cure for cancer- not like you were imagining me with my clothes off.”

____

Stiles immediately averts his gaze, trying very hard not to remember the times when he did in fact do the latter as well- only to be fair he was in the privacy of his own bedroom at the time and not wearing pants.

____

“Yeah okay I’m going to change the subject now,” Lydia decides and Stiles lets out a breath of relief. “Anyway I’m glad you’ve gotten over it.”

____

_Gotten over me_ is implied.

____

“Yeah,” Stiles says thinking how weird this whole conversation is. “Me too.”

____

Lydia slides yet another cup of coffee over to Stiles who accepts it since it’s probably a work of art made with her delicate, well-manicured hands.

____

She takes a small sip out of her own mug and lets out a sigh of contentment.

____

“Okay. Want me to set you up with free streaming? Since I’m assuming it’s safer for everyone that you don’t leave the house and be seen by the public.”

____

She’s already on the way towards his bedroom. Stiles doesn’t even scramble to beat her to it, thinking of the pile of clothes scattered around the floor and the hastily made bed.

____

He’s literally in his rattiest pair of sweatpants, hastily donned a couple minutes ago and a sleep shirt that has several, non-artsy holes in it.

____

The time for any shame has long since passed.

____

He picks up his coffee and follows after her.

____

“I’m definitely listening.”

____

Lydia makes quick work of the staircase and once in his room only does a cursory sweep, and a minor wrinkling of her brow in disgust at the mess. “I’m not even going to ask,” she says, locating his laptop atop the washing basket of clean clothes he has yet to put away.

____

“Good of you,” he grins then obligingly tells her his password when she opens it up and tries to log in.

____

Then she’s pulling up the browser and google searches Disney plus, types in an email that Stiles feels like he should probably recognise and then she’s logged him in.

____

“Here. Something for you to pass the time.”

____

It’s not something that they acknowledge very often. The fact that Lydia is fairly well off while Stiles’ dad is living off a public service pay check.

____

Stiles knows they’re not exactly poor. He owns his own car, and he doesn’t have a part time job- mostly because he’s already exhausted most avenues of interest for a kid with ADHD- and businesses willing to deal with a person of his general obnoxiousness. But it’s not like he’s paying for several streaming services every month.

____

Mostly he just pirates shit.

____

“So whose account is this?” Stiles wonders as Lydia clicks on the icon with Ariel on it and goes into Lydia’s username. Figures she would choose the little mermaid as her profile pic.

____

“It’s Jackson’s,” she says sweetly. “He gave me his password. Just use my profile. I doubt he’ll notice but hey you get free TV and a kick out of Jackson paying for it.”

____

Stiles grins and sees the true wisdom and appeal of ripping off Jackson’s money. “That _is_ true.”

____

__  
  
_ _

____

When he’s rinsing off his and Lydia’s mugs in the sink, Lydia’s car long since having reversed out of his driveway and disappeared down the street, his phone buzzes.

____

Scott’s name comes up on the screen.

____

**VINES??!!?!**

____

Stiles sighs and starts texting a long winded explanation.

____

Only tomorrow will tell if there are any more changes on that front.

____

__  
  
_ _

____

When Stiles wakes up the next day after a The Mandalorian induced haze of late night binge watching, he staggers into the bathroom for the large mirror and an updated verdict on the vines. 

____

“Fuck.”

____

They’ve grown since yesterday. 

____

Stiles inspects himself in the bathroom mirror with a put upon sigh. The vines are wrapped around his throat now, along his arms, all the way down to his feet. They don’t look like they’ve got any mind for stopping.

____

He wriggles out of his boxers again and turns to study himself.

____

Okay definitely covered all over now. He realises that the smaller, thin branches of it connect to a singular vine along the length of his spine before it splits into two to flow down his legs. The vines stop on the back of his hands and then down the slopes of his feet. 

____

Upon reviewing all of this intently, Stiles suddenly realises what he looks like.

____

“Oh my God,” he breathes out, jaw dropping entirely. “I’m the Avatar.”

____

Upon closer inspection though, it’s not exactly true. He has vines on the front and back of his thighs, not just one singular vine travelling down his body, and they spread along the back of his arms all the way past his wrist not from his armpit.

____

Plus he doesn’t have an arrow on his head. Or on his hands and feet. Nor has he possessed any new powers to bend the elements. Which somehow feels a little disappointing right now. Stiles has definitely lost all perspective at this point. 

Still, he has to admit there are some small similarities. Weird ones. Freaky but also something impossible to tear his gaze away from.

____

Eventually when he stops looking at himself and puts his boxers back on, he hears the sound of Scott calling him from downstairs.

____

“Hurry up,” he yells, none too gently. “I’m making pancakes.”

____

“I’m the purple Avatar,” he calls back as if that’s a perfectly respectable response and then heads downstairs to eat.

____

Scott is standing by the stove, watching the pancakes cook but he turns at Stiles entering the room. 

____

“You’re the Avatar now?” he wonders, brow wrinkling.

____

“Yeah,” Stiles says turning around slowly. One of the rare few who has ever seen Stiles shirtless. “Check it.”

____

“Huh,” Scott says once he’s finished looking and Stiles has scrambled into the hoodie he brought down with him. “Yeah, you do have the- except the arrows, I guess. Who does that make me then?”

____

Stiles dips a finger straight into the pancake batter and Scott goes to swat at him before he remembers at the last second. Stiles jumps back a step anyway, heart almost exploding out of his chest at the close call and tries to laugh it off. When he brings his finger to his mouth though it’s not at all steady. 

____

Scott gets this pitying look on his face that Stiles pretends not to notice as he walks around the table island and takes a seat opposite. He brushes over the tension of the near death experience with a roll of his eyes. 

____

“You’d be Sokka.”

____

Scott seems confused even as he starts grabbing out plates from the cupboard above the toaster. “But I’m the one with powers. Shouldn’t I be Katara then? Or Toph. I heal too much to be Zuko.”

____

As if that’s not bad enough Scott puts a hand over his face as if to mimic Zuko’s horrible and traumatic scarring. Dear God, and they say Stiles is insensitive.

____

“Hey, I’m the one with incinerator powers here,” he points out. “And tattoos. I’m absolutely the Avatar.”

____

Scott snorts and starts loading pancakes onto their plates. Since Stiles’ dad isn’t around, he goes straight for the ice cream strategically buried in the freezer beneath the frozen peas. Scott practically loads his up with strawberries and Stiles happily buries his pancakes under ice cream before they take the seats at the island.

____

Stiles sticks with the one metre range he’s been employing the past few days with his dad in the house. It appears to be a somewhat sturdy safety net to apply to all future human interaction, werewolf or no, since his father is very much not dead. And he’s yet to incinerate anyone else.

____

Except the plant his dad kept in the bathroom but Stiles is hoping he isn’t going to notice its passing for some time yet. Stiles didn’t mean to lose his balance and brush a stray leaf on the way down.

____

“Alright, it’s official,” Stiles decides around his first mouthful. “We’re watching Avatar the last Airbender today.” 

____

Scott’s I’m-hungry-and-eating face transforms into his I’m-busy-and-have-plans face.

____

“Oh,” Stiles says, covering his surprise.

____

Somehow he didn’t expect Scott to ditch him so quickly. He’s barely even arrived at Stiles’ place. Later than their agreed time he might add.

____

Call him crazy but considering Stiles’ skin just transformed into a composite colour protecting Scott’s sorry wolf butt and he can now kill literally anyone if he accidentally touches them and as a result is basically confined to his house until the near future- he thought that guaranteed a little supportive friend time. 

____

But no Scott’s busy. Of _course_.

____

“I’m sorry, Kira and I are meant to be hanging out,” Scott admits, unleashing his guilty face. 

____

Stiles has lost out many o’ argument to that face. Maybe he might dispute the point but he is a purple vine man now and not exactly the perfect candidate for polite company. Never mind the fact that if Scott was the purple radioactive dude Stiles would be clearing out his schedule for the next year just to be there for him. 

____

And it’s not even about the fact that Stiles is single and Scott isn’t, Stiles would still be there for Scott even if he had someone. One hundred per cent. He’s proven that when he had Malia. Before they broke up. And she took off with her real dad, the one who raised her. 

Who wouldn’t flee Beacon Hills to get away from Peter Hale. Not one person in the pack was surprised at the time. Least of all Peter.

____

Scott’s the one who loses his head completely and seems to forget about everyone else around him whenever he’s dating a pretty girl. Stiles included. It’s like Scott’s brain vanishes within the radius of the girlfriend zone and doesn’t re-emerge until he’s single again and remembers that friends exist.

____

Gotta love those friendships based on mutual respect.

____

“Yeah, of course,” Stiles says eventually because there’s nothing else he can do about it. Scott will be unreliable Scott. The world keeps spinning madly on and all that.

____

“I’ll be fine. I’m just purple, tattooed and radioactive right now and can incinerate anyone I touch, but no biggie. Business as usual I say.”

____

Scott pushes the tub of ice cream towards Stiles in a gesture of food penance. He would be more annoyed by that attempt except well, it’s food and Stiles is hungry. So he starts scooping out more for something to focus on instead of Scott possibly looking and feeling sorry for him.

____

“I’ll call Derek,” Scott promises and Stiles very nearly flings his spoonful of ice cream onto the floor in a fit of incoordination. “He’s free.”

____

Free to babysit Stiles’ woefully purple and sorry ass? No _thank you_.

____

“Oh my God _why_ would you do that?”

____

Scott gives him a strange look. “Because you dived in between him and that hunter?”

____

If there was any doubt that Scott is losing his grip on reality, that’s definitely being put to rest right now.

____

“I dived between _you_ and that hunter,” Stiles splutters, feeling the need to correct that misconception with immediate and ruthless accuracy. 

____

Because of reasons.

____

Stiles wasn’t risking his life for Derek. It’s not- that’s totally not- Scott is _way_ off base here.

____

Can’t have Derek hearing Scott’s theories either. Can’t have anyone in the pack hearing what’s going on in Scott’s brain right now. Ever. 

____

Next thing Derek will be thinking Stiles actually likes him enough to die for him or something desperately embarrassing like that. Stiles needs to shut that shit down ASAP. Though perhaps their history of coming through for each other in the clutch speaks for itself. Maybe the jury is still out on that one.

____

Scott is not impressed by this information which is unacceptable because it’s literally the most heroic thing that Stiles has ever done in his life and he would like the proper allocated credit for it. “But you saw Derek trying to get between us,” Scott says. “Ergo-“

____

“ _Ergo_?” Stiles repeats appalled. “Ergo, I dived in to protect the both of you werewolf dickbags from imminent death. Let’s not make this a thing.”

____

“A Derek thing,” Scott says pointedly, giving Stiles A Look weighted with unnecessary levels of understanding.

____

Stiles yanks at his hoodie, pulling it away from his neck because suddenly the room has gotten a lot warmer. 

____

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this to you, Scott McCall, the most unobservant person who ever lived, but you’re reading way too much into this.”

____

“If you say so,” Scott says in that persistent way of his which proves he is still stubbornly Not Convinced. “But Derek’s coming over.”

____

“Ha ha very funny.”

____

Twenty minutes after Scott’s left though, and Stiles has wriggled out of the hoodie to lie aimlessly on his bed and stare morosely at the ceiling when Derek suddenly comes through the window, he realises Scott actually wasn’t messing around.

____

“You!” Stiles splutters, scrambling upwards into a seated position and remembering he hasn’t got a shirt on and is only clad in his boxers. His hands scramble to cover his chest but really there’s no point. He’s purple and covered in tattoos. 

Stiles is bound to draw the eye anyway.

____

“You’re a grown ass man!” he shouts, to cover his embarrassment. “Use the front door.”

____

Derek communicates his opinion of this command with his eyebrows of non-verbal glory and literally turns about and disappears out the window again. Okay, maybe Stiles could have been more welcoming but if Derek wants to vanish in a huff then he’s not going to stop him.

____

But then the doorbell rings.

____

“No,” Stiles breathes, amazed at the blatant dickishness that is Derek Hale and his bitchy attitude. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

____

He flops back onto the mattress and refuses to get up to let Derek back into the house on principle. But that doesn’t seem to matter much since apparently Scott didn’t lock the door behind him when he left earlier because after a pause, Stiles hears the front door opening and Derek’s light tread on the floorboards.

____

Dammit Scott. Really?

____

If this were a horror movie Stiles would have been dead twenty minutes ago. Hunched over head first into the ice cream container, still in his boxers.

____

Derek waltzes back into his bedroom a second later. The fucker.

____

“You about done?” Stiles mutters, not bothering to throw on any clothes because this is his damn house, and he refuses to let Derek’s momentarily unforeseen abs shame him into covering up.

____

Though if he wasn’t completely purple he probably would have. Hard to feel self-conscious with that big distraction in the room.

____

Derek is staring at his chest and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s because of the colour scheme or the newly formed vines but it’s not entirely pleasant being ogled by someone like Derek Hale. It’s like getting a hint of something that he’ll never ever in a hundred billion years get to actually experience.

____

This is what his life has become.

____

“Turn over,” Derek says, seemingly oblivious to the significance of those words.

____

Stiles’ skin heats up. 

____

“You heard how suggestive that sounds, right? This is literally the start of a gay porno. You came in _through my window_.”

____

Apparently that’s too much for Derek because his usual straight faced composure wrinkles.

____

“That’s not-“ he says, and he’s flustered now, oh God. Derek. _Flustered_. “I just want to see how far the vines have spread.”

____

But Stiles is having way too much fun with this new reaction to let the golden opportunity slide now. “Well they’re on my ass,” he says, half turning like he’s going to roll over and show Derek the area in question. “Do you still want me to-?“

____

“Stiles,” Derek snaps, but when Stiles looks up again his face is actually slightly red.

____

And hello looks like everything’s coming up Milhouse after all.

____

“Dude,” he says gleefully. “I didn’t even know you could get embarrassed.”

____

Derek crosses his arms and he is Not Amused. “Believe it or not I can experience the whole range of human emotion.”

____

“You don’t say,” he teases, but moves to sit up properly. “It’s from my neck all the way down to my feet now. Yesterday it hadn’t spread so much.”

____

Derek steps closer which has become a dangerous act now with Stiles involved. “Let me see your hands.”

____

Stiles shows him because what else is there to do? Stuff them under the duvet and pretend they don’t exist? He asks to see his feet after that. Derek inspects them closely but doesn’t say anything.

____

“Is this your idea of hanging out?” Stiles wonders. “Staring at my hands and feet and asking to see my butt? You got weird kinks, man.”

____

“I didn’t ask-“ Derek says hotly before he catches up with the conversation and scowls, wisely not rising to the bait. “I came to see the new marks that turned up.”

____

“Oh,” he mutters, catching on.

____

Gee thanks for blabbing Scott. And why did he give Stiles the impression that Derek was coming over to keep him company then? How did Stiles not question that? Outside of monster of the week attacks and recklessly saving one another, he and Derek don’t really interact.

____

Not that he’d be opposed to that or anything. Derek happens to be the exact brand of asshole that Stiles appreciates and aspires to bring more of into his own life. If Stiles thought his skin was capable of blushing anymore, he feels like he would be. Or maybe he still can? Would it just be a lighter colour purple or pink and red like everyone else?

____

Derek hesitates to say anything for a while and Stiles wonders how this is going to end up being even more humiliating than it was twenty seconds ago when Derek didn’t know Stiles thought he was coming over to _hang out_. 

____

Because it will be guaranteed. Derek’s probably got plenty of better things to do today other than keeping Stiles company. He hasn’t lurked round the high school in a while. Altogether looming and intimidating. Maybe he should try that.

____

“You thought I was coming here to spend time with you?” Derek says quietly, with a strange expression on his face as he realises what’s going on. “You wanted to hang out- with me?”

____

The way he says it like it’s a foreign concept is pretty much the worst thing that Stiles has ever heard in the state of ever. Maybe the rest of the pack hasn’t really been acting like Derek’s friends as much as they should have. 

____

It is hard to go out and do bonding activities when most of the time the dumpster fire that is the town of Beacon Hills is imploding and people’s lives are constantly in danger and there’s college midterms and bigger priorities than weaving friendship bracelets.

____

But still.

____

“Well yeah,” Stiles admits, suddenly unable to look at him. “I mean I was just gonna watch Avatar the last Airbender today but you probably don’t even-“

____

Surprisingly Derek sits down on the edge of the bed without a lick of hesitation like Scott possessed all morning whenever he was in Stiles’ vicinity. 

____

“Because of the vine tattoos right?” he says. “You don’t have the arrows.”

____

Stiles gaps at him. “You know what show I’m talking about?”

____

Derek shrugs, non-committing, and turns away. 

____

“Sure, ‘Water, Earth, Fire, Air’-“

____

Stiles feels as if his understanding of the universe just shifted monumentally. But- how did Derek find the time to do normal things like watch cartoons?

____

In Stiles’ mind he’s always been leather jacket, stubble and multiple stages of tetchiness. He refuses to accept Derek’s literal age regression moment when he was hiding out at Stiles’ place as verification that he was ever young or adolescent. The jury considers that evidence as inadmissible as it was at the behest of evil she-witch Kate Argent. 

____

“Oh my God this is incredible,” he declares. “It’s like seeing a unicorn, the Loch Ness monster and Bela Lugosi all at once.”

____

“Only one of those actually exists, Stiles.”

____

But Stiles is too busy scrambling up towards his DVD collection so he can put the first season disk into his Xbox to respond. He flops back onto the bed, keeping the controller within reach so that he can press play and it’s nice to see that Derek doesn’t jerk away from him when he gets close. Scott kept flinching every time Stiles moved nearby like a cat jumping at loud noises.

____

Well it is nice until he considers that Derek likely has a death wish. Then it’s not so endearing. Stiles caves and scoops his hoodie up off the floor and starts squirming back into it. If anything he’s ensuring there’s less chance Derek might accidentally touch him and explode into dust particles so it’s win-win.

____

“Laura and I used to watch it together,” Derek admits once the first episode is starting and Katara has begun to narrate. “When we lived in New York.”

____

Stiles doesn’t say anything. Mostly because he’s never heard Derek talk about Laura. He’s mentioned her to Scott, and Stiles has heard things from Cora and Peter, but Derek doesn’t really talk about the past very much.

____

Obviously for good reason. 

____

Still, Stiles doesn’t want to scare him off from doing it again so he keeps his mouth shut and budges over in surprise when Derek actually lies down on the bed and kicks his shoes off to get comfortable. 

____

He rests his arms under his head, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the mattress except Stiles can’t handle having Derek’s head around his waistline/crotch level. Because if he turned on his side he’d get a mouthful of Stiles’ dick easy (and also insta-cremated) so Stiles scoots forward to the edge of the bed within reach of the controller and lies down on his stomach, politely ignoring Derek’s feet that are now closer to his face than before. 

____

And hopes that the sudden arousal in the air will ping on Derek’s radar as typical Stiles arousal and not Derek- Stiles’ dick generated.

____

Unlikely as that may seem. 

____

Fortunately though, Derek’s ability of not addressing things seems to extend towards to the endless Stiles boner in the room. He’ll admit that he feels a profound gratefulness towards Derek for that.

____

He might have lost his virginity in a less than romantically appealing environment, also known as a mental institution, but that doesn’t mean Stiles wants to be called out on the fact that he might be panting after someone wholly out of his league, and probably out of the league of humanly possible.

____

And he’d very much not rather experience the unfair degree of attractiveness that is Derek Hale benevolently inclining his head from the throne of supreme hotness to pityingly explain that Stiles won’t be getting within three feet of that ass because it defies the natural order of things.

____

Present incineration powers not included. 

____

But hey at least they’ve got cartoons.

____

__  
  
_ _

____

“D’you reckon I should just blow up Deaton’s phone until he comes up with some answers for all of this?” asks Stiles when they’re on the Warriors of Kyoshi episode and Sokka just got his butt handed to him.

____

Derek inclines his head a little, but Stiles waves his bare arms around in helpful demonstration at his purple everything before he can ask.

____

“He won’t give you the answers you want,” Derek points out sounding experienced in the matter of Deaton’s true unhelpfulness. “And you seem like you know what’s happening anyway.”

____

Stiles lets his arms flop back on the mattress and wonders how much he wants to punch that response in the face. At least it isn’t a vague and unhelpfully optimistic Scott answer so there is that. But Stiles doesn’t know if Derek’s unique take on things helps any better.

____

“Feel like elaborating on that at any point?”

____

Derek drags his eyes away from the screen and gives the tattoos on Stiles’ neck a considering look. “The hunters injected you with a strain of wolfsbane powerful enough to instantly kill werewolves,” he says. “Something that acts as both a neurotoxin and cardiotoxin should seriously poison a human. Only you’re completely fine. Except your skin’s purple and now vines that look similar to the wolfsbane flower are sprouting up on your skin.”

____

Stiles glares at him. “I’m aware of that. Thank you.”

____

Derek only pushes forward like Stiles’ attitude barely assembles a barrier against his argument.

____

“So then what does that tell you?”

____

Stiles really doesn’t want to think of the possible alternatives for how that evening could have ended.

____

“That I should be dead already?”

____

“No. That instead of this powerful strain shutting down your motor function and eventually leading to heart failure, when it was introduced to your system, you-“

____

“Absorbed it instead,” Stiles finishes, catching on to Derek’s meaning. “So what these tattoos are just a manifestation of the foreign toxin in my blood and I should just keep incinerating things until it’s completely cleared from my system? Is that what you’re saying?”

____

“I’m saying you’re body adapted pretty extraordinarily to a certain death situation and instead of dying it weaponised the thing that was meant to kill you.”

____

“So?”

____

“So it seems like your body has already proven it’s pretty capable of surviving on its own without interference so- just be patient.”

____

“Thems be fighting words, Derek. Patient isn’t really my style.”

____

Derek rolls his eyes and pulls a face. “Wow, really?”

____

Sarcasm should not look so good on a person.

____

__  
  
_ _

____

When Derek leaves later, after they’ve watched the entire first season of Avatar the Last Airbender and Stiles is muttering about starting dinner since his dad will be home soon, Derek heads out the front door before Stiles can decide if he should extend an invitation with only some minor Derek awkwardness.

____

Which means no goodbye and some stupid command about not annoying Deaton to death before shutting the front door, drowning out Stiles’ responding protests.

____

It’s only when he hears the click of the door unlocking twenty minutes later, and Stiles has just finished cooking the pasta for the Bolognese in the kitchen that he realises that Derek locked the front door behind him when he left.

____

Huh.

____

__  
  
_ _

____

And if Stiles happens to energetically jerk himself off in the shower later that night, thinking about Derek’s face being close to his dick, or the way he’d laughed when Iroh said, shit-eating grin, “The lotus tile was in my sleeve the whole time!” or how he’d been next to Stiles on the bed without flinching, not even once, or that he’d locked the front door behind him when he finally left-

____

Well that’s no one’s business but his own.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also me @ me thinking this time I'm only gonna write two chapters: lol no sweaty :)

The thing about magic-imposed exile is that Stiles is absolute the worst candidate that anybody with good sense could have selected to undergo such a thing.

Because with years of being pitied, looked down on and ignored by the masses of Beacon Hills, Stiles has nurtured a disturbingly underdeveloped sense of shame. Or more accurately no shame to contend with whatsoever.

Which is why the whole laying low, locked up house gremlin approach only lasts two days. Two days of aimlessly wandering about the house in between bouts of marathoning TV and getting distracted by googling his own thoughts and endless down the rabbit hole Wikipedia searches while his dad is at work. Two days of no pants either because he is very much sans any company at the moment- busy Scott indeed, and underwear is the most comfortable piece of clothing invented. 

Two days of the merry go round before Stiles loses his collective shit and decides he needs to do something. 

Something outside.

That, and he gets snacky.

So he throws on real clothing (with a trademark amount of layers of course), ignoring thoughts like whether purple clashes with his current outfit and or if his hands should be covered in bubble wrap, snatches his keys from the kitchen counter and slips out into the night like a bat outta hell.

His goals aren’t lofty. 

There’s a convenience store that stays open til ten pm now in order to compete with the flashy twenty-four hour gas station that opened up on Wilson Boulevard last month.

Stiles passes the living room where his father has fallen asleep in front of the TV again and slips out the front door.

He makes his way to the jeep and climbs in once it's unlocked, feeling confident this is a wholeheartedly appropriate idea. He guns the engine, throws the stick into reverse and backs out of the driveway, already blaring music that’s hooked up to his phone like he needs an escape soundtrack.

He heads on over to the convenience store because he supports smalls businesses (and single moms) and parks nearly opposite it on the main stretch just in case there’s need of a quick getaway. But he’s not especially concerned. In fact, Stiles is already in a good mood just from the change of scenery alone.

When he enters the building, there’s an immediate blast of air conditioning to counter the balmy night outside and a teenager hunkered down at the main counter reading a magazine with a bored expression.

So pretty much any general store in America.

He doesn’t look up when Stiles enters nor does he offer a greeting of any kind.

Unbothered by this, Stiles heads down the aisle that holds his interest: snacks and confectionery. He grabs some Milk Duds, Reese’s pieces and a bar of Hershey’s before grabbing some Funyuns and a bag of Flamin’ hot Cheetos and searching for red Gatorade in one of the other aisles.

Then he retreats back to the front of the store and puts it all on the counter in one triumphant move. The teenager folds up his magazine and goes to stow it beside the cash register before he finally looks at Stiles.

To his credit, the guy’s expression doesn’t change much but he does freeze, magazine half in the air so Stiles gets a good look at it. It literally says Serial Killers on the cover and there’s a picture of some freaky looking menacing guy beneath it holding a knife, but somehow the teenager is looking at _him_ like he’s the weird one out of the two of them.

Stiles figures he should just be upfront about it. Lay all the mystery to bed.

“Look I get it,” he says understandingly. “I know what you’re thinking right now but trust me on this, dude. You do _not_ wanna know, okay?”

The guy scans the first item which happens to be the Milk Duds. “Vat of toxic waste, huh?”

Stiles snorts. “More like eighty cans of grape Fanta.”

The teenager rolls his eyes and takes hold of the Reese’s cups. “I mean you’d be dead but whatever. Costume party gone wrong,” the guy decides, bagging the items as he scans them.

“Camouflage,” Stiles counters.

The Cheetos scan with a loud beep.

“For what?” the kid snorts. “Prank.”

“Family illness,” says Stiles, unable to resist the challenge.

“Allergic reaction.”

“Weak sauce, man,” Stiles says as the guy rings it up and he sets the cash on the counter while he’s half turned away. “What would I even be allergic to?”

The guy picks up the money, opens the til and gets out the right change before turning back to face him with a smirk. “Eggplant.”

“That’s pathetic,” Stiles says but he’s laughing anyway. “Out of control government experiment.”

“Something in the water supply,” the guy muses, holding the coins out expectantly until Stiles points at the counter and he drops them there for Stiles to pick up with only a little quirk of an eyebrow. “I’d believe that.”

Stiles takes the bag and heads towards the exit.

“Hey,” the teenagers calls, smiling a little. “You know you’re a freak, right?”

Stiles turns and grins back. “Of the two of us, who is the budding serial killer, do you think?”

The guy rolls his eyes and Stiles tips his fingers at him in a lazy salute before heading out into the evening air, feeling slightly better about the world.

At least now there’s snacks.

“Oh,” Stiles hears someone gasp and locks eyes with a woman walking her dog on the way back to his car.

She’s drawn up to a dead stop, eyes wide at the sight of him and Stiles manages a cheery wave.

“Too much eggplant,” he says by way of explanation, cackling freely as he climbs into the jeep, bag of contraband swinging up exultantly behind him.

  
  


When he gets back to the house, the porch lights are on and his dad is sitting on the front steps waiting for him, cradling the phone in his hand. 

Like he was expecting someone to call him. Possibly to discuss his purple progeny running about Beacon Hills unsupervised and terrifying the townsfolk.

Uh- oh.

Stiles’ spots the expression on his face and what little of a good mood he’d earned from venturing out of the house for ten minutes, vanishes.

He glances down at the bag of junk food he just bought and finally sees it from the rational adult perspective. He can kill people indiscriminately now, without intention or any semblances of control and instead of locking himself away forever he went into town to buy himself some eats.

Hmmm. This might not have been as well thought out as he’d previously convinced himself.

Grimly, Stiles pulls into the driveway and prepares to defend his actions in whatever capacity he can.

When he climbs out of the jeep, his father slowly gets to his feet and approaches only two steps, his gaze roaming over Stiles quickly in what Stiles has always deemed his Cop Glance: a ten second flick of the eyes as he scans and takes in every bit of information he can from Stiles’ sneakers to the bag of groceries he has hanging loosely at his side.

His expression shifts and Stiles knows that face too- lecture mode engaged.

“You left the house.”

It seems harmless enough, an open enough statement that leaves room for sass or a well-crafted joke but Stiles knows his father likes to dangle statements and facts without corroboration- hoping Stiles might rise to the bait. Too many years in interrogation rooms have given the sheriff the superpower of what appears to be innocuous inquiries.

It’s taken a few years of his own before Stiles has properly figured out how not to incriminate himself. This one is a little harder to squirm his way out of however.

“Not permanently,” he replies, as always finding the technicality and latching onto it. Misdirection is Stiles’ go to method when confronted with his dad’s sudden awareness parenting.

It’s not that his father is a bad parent per se. It’s just that he’s not often a present one- he works more than 40 hour weeks to provide for them, and Stiles gets that and tries his best not to make things harder when he’s already coming home tired and drained.

The problem with that is, while Stiles loves his dad like crazy and would practically cut off his left hand for him if necessary, when things kind of go down and he makes stupid decisions in the spur of the moment or ends up in unlikely situations- avoiding them to give his father some peace isn’t a first thought that comes to mind. 

Like now for instance. Even if Stiles goes out of his way to keep his dad as uniformed of these situations as possible. Things do still- sometimes- slip through the cracks.

There’s a definite space in their lives where Stiles’ mother used to be- but they try their best to balance out the dynamic by filling the empty gaps wherever they can. Stiles still feels like they’re plugging holes in a sinking ship sometimes but that’s more to do with loss than any real judgement on his father’s part.

“No technicalities, Stiles. You went in town- when you’re like this.”

“It’s like almost ten thirty,” Stiles says defensively. “And hardly anyone was out. Jeez, It’s Sunday night, Dad. I was careful.”

“Were you though?” his father comes at him with, getting directly to the point and cutting through the bullshit as always. “Because I don’t know how you’re feeling on this but you seem very nonchalant about how dangerous you’ve become.”

“I-“ Stiles opens his mouth at once, then swallows heavily. “You think I’m dangerous?”

“I think this is a situation you should be taking a lot more seriously than you seem to be. You just took an incredible risk- putting your life and the lives of other innocent people in jeopardy for some Funyuns.”

Stiles realises the plastic bag holding his snacks has swung around his leg, giving his father full view of its contents. Hastily he swipes it back behind him and tries to ignore the sting of reproach cramping his gut. “I am taking this seriously. I’ve been locked away in the house for two days and I was already going crazy!”

He doesn’t need the hand gestures to put across his pent up feelings of said craziness, his father has been picking up on his agitation every night he’s returned from work. “I just wanted- to be outside doing something. I can handle this you know, I’m being super careful and I know what can go wrong if I’m not.”

His father only frowns. “I’m not doubting that, Stiles. I’m just worried. You gonna let me be the parent for a bit and be concerned about what’s happening to my son?”

And suddenly all at once, Stiles loses his steam. And reverts back to feeling suitably chastised again.

“I’ll allow it.”

“Well good.”

That doesn’t really shake the feeling that Stiles is trapped in his own never-ending circumstances with no real way of escaping on the horizon though.

He can kill people now. He’s dangerous. He probably needs to go somewhere where there isn’t much of a population. Where there’s less chance of harming anyone. Except who ever heard of a place on this goddamn planet where there aren’t any people?

And Antarctica is so not an option.

  
  


Derek hasn’t been back to Stiles’ house since the marathoning an entire season of ATLA freak incident.

Which is both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because Stiles would rather stab himself with rusty scissors than know Derek was coming over to hang out with him out of pity rather than any real desire to spend time together. And a curse because, obviously, Stiles wants to keep watching the show.

Except well, he started watching it _with_ Derek. And there are certain procedures that go with binge watching together. And that means something to Stiles- you never leave a friend behind in a TV show marathon- that’s just basic decency. The consequences of breaking this pact can cause ultimate bro fights, tear friendships apart. 

Not to mention the Lost incident of 2012 when Scott watched ahead of their marathon and promptly spoiled the ending of the entire series by bringing it to Stiles attention because he didn’t get it.

You do not fuck with a TV marathon. It’s in the bro code.

So right, the TV show standoff. 

Luckily the wolfsbane hasn’t boiled his brain enough for Stiles to believe that Derek is gonna come back to finish things off- but he’s also not going to shoot himself in the foot by closing off the option entirely either. 

If the stars did align, the moon eclipsed the sun and the veil between the living and the dead blurred enough for Derek to stroll up his driveway one day wanting to start the second season of Avatar the Last Airbender with him- Stiles wasn’t going to fuck it up by watching ahead.

Besides he’s already seen it right? It doesn’t matter- he can wait. It’s not like it’s the only thing to watch. Thanks to Lydia he now has access to Disney plus (and also Jackson’s Netflix password which Lydia texted to him last night in a fit of spitefulness) so the whole world is at his fingertips.

“I don’t get it though,” Scott says when he calls that morning, out of the blue, and already in the midst of heading over to Kira’s for their very important spending time together plans. “Why don’t you just invite Derek over again?”

Stiles, who is in the middle of making himself a coffee, spills the instant coffee powder across the countertop. 

“What? No!” he shouts into the phone, after having relayed some of his marathon dilemma to Scott simply for the sake of venting. “That was not the point at all, Scott. I was just describing the mental limbo I’m in right now.”

“Seems like there’s a really simple way to fix your problem,” Scott replies and Stiles can hear the scrape of his helmet as he flips the visor, swiftly announcing the expiry date on this conversation.

“Anyway I have-“

“-To go, yeah,” Stiles finishes, already well versed in this dance. “Have fun with Kira.”

When Stiles hangs up, he’s left feeling only a little fond of Scott’s perfectly predictable Scott-ness.

An hour later when there’s a knock at the front door and Stiles drags himself downstairs to spy Derek standing on the front porch, he instantly changes his mind about reserving any particular fondness for Scott.

And starts contemplating murder again.

Because after a few days of zero interaction he’s suddenly, extremely aware of what powers that be could have brought Derek to his door. Except since this is not confirmed as yet he has to play the game first. Inwardly roasting Scott alive in his mind as he does so.

“Derek,” he says casually, swinging the door just wide enough to let him in, but also shielding Stiles from the neighbours who might possibly see him on the street. “What are you doing here?”

“Season 2 right?” Derek says, stepping into the foyer and Stiles is going to _kill_ Scott. Obliterate him into a thousand annoying Scott-like pieces. The absolute stinking rat. “Scott called.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Stiles grumbles, snapping the door shut behind him with force. “You know you could live your life without taking direction from the likes of Scott McCall. This is the second time he’s ordered you over to my house and you’ve showed up. How high, right?”

Derek shoots him a knowing look. “And you could have just asked me yourself.”

Stiles makes an inhuman sound, definitely in the realms of the pathetic even as his face flushes. Dammit Derek’s got him there.

The indignity of it all is not lost on him.

“I- well look at that I’ve just literally come to my senses,“ he retorts, skin no doubt broadcasting every fit of emotion on his face right now. “Door’s behind you then.”

“Do you want to watch this together or not, Stiles?” Derek asks, folding his arms in what is probably an unconscious gesture but seems to do nothing else but make his muscles bulge enticingly.

Stiles’ gut wrenches a little. Except. Possibly lower.

“Fuck, fine. But I’ll have you know I would have texted you on my own- this is just Scott feeling guilty at ditching me and becoming involved and overly helpful for a hot second before he reverts back to regular Scott again.”

Stiles is well versed in the many facets of Scott McCall. This is a mere blip on the sunset of his sunny personality.

“Seems like you know him pretty well,” Derek continues after a beat. “Exactly like he knew you wanted company.”

He doesn’t say anything further but it feels like another kind of attack anyway. One that suggests things like Derek and not so platonic feelings and Stiles all lumped in together.

“I _would_ have texted-“

“No, you wouldn’t have. I bet you were thinking this was a pity thing the first time.”

Stiles frowns at him. He doesn’t like that Derek is maybe a little bit right about this. “Because my situation right now really inspires people’s envy,” he mutters dryly.

Yeah maybe if that person was blind and/or a serial killer.

“It’s not pity,” Derek says, bluntly enough that he has Stiles’ entire attention even though he doesn’t elaborate further. 

Because why else would Derek have come over and spent all day with Stiles when it was not a requirement? Why would he have-?

“So what is it then?” Stiles demands, losing patience with Derek’s inability to give direct answers. “Morbid fascination?”

“Pack. You’re pack,” Derek says, with a shrug.

“Pack,” Stiles echoes, trying not to let his face make any sudden movements. “Right. Sure. Go wolves.”

Of course. Of _course_ it’s a pack thing. Because of course Stiles isn't special. Of course Derek would have done the same for literally anyone else. For Lydia, for Isaac, for Kira. 

Somehow it doesn’t sit right to know that. To think Derek would have turned up for _Jackson_.

Ugh. Why would it be any different? There’s a part of him still firmly buried in the recesses of denial that knows exactly why he’s disappointed by this notion. It’s the same part that sent his heart skittering wildly upon sighting Derek waiting on his doorstep.

The very same thing that gets him buzzing and quietly thrilled whenever Derek directs his attention on him and-

Stiles does _not_ want to think about this.

Derek gives him a considering look after the less than flat reaction and Stiles realises he might be showing cards that are meant to be permanently close to the vest. Showing more than a little much for comfort. 

“We look out for each other,” Derek continues, still watching Stiles closely. “Like you look out for your Dad.”

That is not remotely even in the right universe as the same thing. Stiles opens his mouth to explain in great detail why their situations are very much not comparable just before he realises in order to do so evidence of Other Things will be brought to light.

Instead Stiles gives up on retorts or defences, leaves himself scrambled and makes a tactical yet hasty retreat to his bedroom.

The creak on the stair behind him announces that Derek is following of his own accord even with that terrible rebuttal. Stiles thinks if he cared less about what Derek thought, specifically the thoughts surrounding Stiles, then he would have been less flustered by the entire situation.

Also Scott _really_ needs to stop sending the guy Stiles might very well be carrying a massive feeling boner for- both figuratively and literally- over to his house unannounced. It's getting Stiles all kinds of twisted up. Seriously.

Stiles heads toward the box set of Avatar the Last Airbender he’d been glancing at forlornly from his bed every now and again for the past few days and picks up the second season, planting himself in front of the Xbox to set up while Derek sits down on his bed.

Oh man, Derek on his bed. _Again_.

Stiles grits his teeth and shoves the DVD in with a little too much force, before he has to gently right its position in the disk tray so it can close properly. When he climbs back to his feet, Stiles scoops up his phone from where it was deposited on the ground from his last attempt to call Scott and see if he was free to hang, and was knocked back by Scott’s very busy, very important Other Plans, and starts furiously typing up a message.

 **STOP SENDING DEREK HALE TO MY HOUSE**

Stiles hits send and feels maybe, slightly, marginally, a little better.

Then he joins Derek.

“Finished giving Scott shit yet?” Derek asks, with an air of innocence that cannot be believed.

Stiles makes a face at him.

“As long reigning best friend, that’s actually a lifetime requirement,” he asserts, putting on airs to explain it to him.

Derek merely drops back and grabs the pillow Stiles slept on last night from the head of the bed, dragging it closer and propping his head up under it with only a hum of acknowledgement.

Stiles does his very best not to gawk at this. Isn’t the whole werewolf senses thing broadcasting the pillow pretty much reeks of eau de Stiles? Not going to say it. Not going to-

“You know I practically drooled all over that last night, right?” Stiles says and then instantly wishes he could incinerate himself.

Derek merely slides his gaze over toward him again and makes no movement to fling the pillow away in disgust. Or smack Stiles in the face with it. The lack of reaction is somewhat confusing. But Derek only shrugs, untroubled.

“I think you’re really underestimating my endurance.”

Stiles snorts at that and makes himself comfortable on the bed, not too close to Derek as to be in danger.

“Weird hill to die on, dude, but alright.”

And Derek somehow manages to look perfectly comfortable in the room, using Stiles’ pillow, shirt riding up only slightly over the waistband of his jeans just enough to tantalise and capture Stiles’ attention no matter how many times he subtly glances at it and mentally promises not to look again. 

Meanwhile Stiles feels super aware of his body. Wired like he’s had a few too many energy drinks, tried looking directly into the sun for two minutes on a dare and ate a bowl of Hot Tamales candy all at once.

And he’s pretty sure that none of these reactions have anything to do with the fact that his touch is explosive and there’s another living person near him he could kill. Though the fact that it's Derek near him seems to be a very strong contender.

Stiles swallows, tries to shake off the unsettled something: nerves, feelings, bowel movements- whatever, and hits play.

And the marathon continues.

  
  


Unrelated to the events of the afternoon, Stiles really delves into gay porn that night. Trying to find the right video to beat off to. It takes a while because weird things keep leaving him unsatisfied or disinterested enough to click out. And not even like weird sex kinks.

Like the fact that one of the guys being fucked is blonde. Or when it’s two beefy dudes banging it out together, or two twinks straddling each other. They’re all too clean shaven. Then one’s beard is too out of control he’s practically a wizened Dumbledore.

In one the guy fucking is too forceful. Another, he’s not forceful enough. Stiles nearly settles on a guy being fucked against a wall by a bigger, jacked up dude, but then the noises he makes sound pained, and false enough that Stiles loses interest in the scene.

It takes him nearly an hour to find the right video and by then he’s barely touching himself, erection almost flagging in the interim.

Not a problem once he starts watching though. There’s a well-built guy, dark hair, muscular but not roided up, smoothing tanned hands over the ass cheeks of some pale, almost angular dude who’s lying face down on the bed.

The well-built guy has trim stubble shadowing his jaw which comes into play when he pulls open the pale guy’s ass cheeks and enthusiastically rims him for a couple minutes. And the noises the other guy lets out in response sound close enough to genuine pleasure for Stiles to finally start cupping his dick with interest.

They don’t bother with fingering, most porn Stiles ends up watching never does, but by the time the well-built guy has slotted his dick forward and pushed inside the pale guy on the bed- not even waiting before he’s pounding into his ass- Stiles is already close to coming.

It’s a good video. 

Amateur enough to feel real but with polish to not make it feel like a personal window into someone’s bedroom. Stiles is riding the edge of a livewire watching the big guy go to town on the skinnier one’s ass and he can’t be sure what it is exactly, the way the built guy holds down the other one’s hips, jackhammering smoothly inside him, a force of power and stamina to be reckoned with, or the way the pale guy gasps and groans into the mattress, hand reaching back to grip clumsily at the built guy’s hip egging him on faster, harder.

Stiles doesn’t know what it is but it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

He comes all over his fist before the video is even done.

Then goes back to the beginning once he’s got his breath back in order to watch it all over again.

  
  


Stiles' birthday comes and goes with little fanfare, such a non-event that it's not worth mentioning. He decides ahead of time to text the pack and tell them he doesn't want to do anything so his twenty-first birthday consists of eating takeout pizza with his dad on their couch and watching one of his favourite movies, The Usual Suspects. 

Considering the situation lately, it's actually not that bad of a birthday. 

Stiles celebrates his second day as a twenty one year old in the living room, sprawled out on the couch shirtless in his boxers watching TV with the blinds drawn lest he be seen by the human populace. And even that brief moment of peace is soon interrupted by a knock at the door.

He knows that it’s Scott because he texted earlier warning of his plan to stop by for a quick visit before work and Stiles doesn’t pause in the middle of the episode he’s currently glued to so he runs to the front door to unlock it and let him in before sprinting back.

He can hear the characters still talking but the problem is, is that it’s a Chinese drama so Stiles actually needs the subtitles to have any context for what’s going on.

And there’s a _lot_ going on.

Scott, somewhat bemused by his distracted state, follows him back into the living room as Stiles parks himself on the couch again.

“This is getting really good,” Stiles tells Scott by way of greeting, eyes already turned back to the screen to watch Wei Ying try to sneak into the Cloud Recesses before he’s caught by Lan Zhan on the roof.

“What the hell are you watching?” Scott wonders, looking confused already.

Stiles grins and leans back.

“It’s called The Untamed. It’s kind of a period war drama except they banish monsters and ghosts and shit and the main character is kind of the villain accused of doing all these bad things before he died except he got reincarnated in someone else’s body like sixteen years later.”

Scott’s mouth falls open.

“That’s a lot happening in one show.”

Stiles shrugs again, a little gleeful, and utterly engaged by the story already. It was kind of hard to figure out what was happening a first, since some things get lost in the subtitles but once he started googling- things started making better sense.

“Well there’s like fifty episodes so they’ve got plenty of time to cover it.”

“Fifty!” Scott says, aghast as Lan Wangji draws his sword across Wei Wuxian’s path to block him while they argue.

Scott watches with him for a little while and Stiles can’t resist grinning when Wei Wuxian almost flirtatiously sheaths Lan Wangji’s sword for him. Ooooooh yeah this is gonna be _good_. Stiles can already tell.

“So who’s that?” Scott wonders, as the show goes on, and next thing he knows, Stiles is launching into an in depth explanation of the Story So Far, doing his best to describe all of the characters fully and what's happening.

Scott nods along, watching the two of them fight and eventually Stiles stops observing Scott’s reactions in order to pay closer attention. Since he hasn’t got anything better to do, Stiles has already decided that this show will be more than interesting enough to occupy him for the next few days. It’s got the right amount of drama and intrigue to capture his attention.

Scott is silent for a bit and they watch in companionable peace for the next ten minutes.

And then, of course, he ruins it.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says eventually, with an expression of almost smugness that Scott often gets once he’s figured something out. “I get it.”

Instantly, Stiles is defensive.

“Get what?”

“The really stoic guy and the mischievous one who talks a lot. They’re gonna fall in love, right?”

And Stiles, who already read well ahead in the wiki pages and can confirm this is true of the book it was based off- though with China being what it is less explicitly in the TV show adaption- tries not to let any of this information show on his face.

“I don’t know,” he says with an air of faked curiosity and indifference. “Maybe.”

Scott grins again, with that same smugness that really rankles Stiles at his core. Somehow he can just sense this is going to circle its way back around to-

“So where’s Derek today?”

And _there_ it is.

Stiles glares at him. “Well I don’t know, Scott. You’re the one who keeps inviting him places why don’t you tell me?”

Scott, at least, has the sense to look a little sheepish. “Aw c’mon I knew you weren’t gonna ask so I thought I’d- you know, help out.”

“Help out with what?” Stiles demands, skin feeling unnaturally warm. “I very much do not need help with anything, Scott McCall, and there better not be any more surprise visits in future on your behalf cause I’ll be super pissed if there is.”

Scott holds up his hands in surrender but he’s still got that same smugness about him. Stiles would punch him if it wouldn't directly result in his death.

“Alright. Message received. I’m gonna head off. You enjoy your Chinese drama.”

“I will,” Stiles shoots back, feeling very much like he did not have the upper hand in this discussion whatsoever.

Scott grins again, like he caught Stiles with proof of something before he’s heading back out the door, only locking it because Stiles shouts out a reminder as he leaves.

Stiles is pretty sure he knows what Scott was getting at. If he’s being honest with himself. But, the thing is- is that these characters aren’t real even if some aspects, some teeny tiny aspects of personality might overlap just a little with people he knows in his own life.

Stiles just enjoys their dynamic, okay? 

And he’s always in when it comes to drama.

Scott can eat it.

  
  


“I think I’ve lost my mind,” Stiles says, that night to the empty room at large.

Thirteen episodes in and Stiles has nearly stopped recognising the English language altogether when he’d paused watching to make dinner before his dad finally came home. Stiles is pretty sure once dinner is over and his dad has gone to bed that he’s going to be marathoning The Untamed well into the wee hours of the morning.

With no regrets.

“How so?” asks his father, pretty calmly considering Stiles’ declaration.

“What?” Stiles turns, almost surprised to realise he wasn’t just talking to himself. “Oh uh nothing. Never mind.”

His dad just looks at him. Unleashes his assessing cop gaze to determine that a) Stiles has not sustained a new injury in the eight hours he was left unsupervised, and b) isn’t currently bleeding profusely from anywhere before c) glossing over Stiles’ expression to take a crack at determining his mental state.

He seems to come to an acceptable conclusion following this inspection because he merely rolls his eyes instead. “Because that’s reassuring, hearing my purple son talking to himself.”

“Hey,” Stiles protests, pretending at being offended. “I used to talk to myself before the wolfsbane overdose happened. This is not a new development.”

“Yeah,” his father agrees picking up their empty dinner plates, the one Stiles practically licked clean of any evidence of the zucchini lasagne he’d cooked that night, before carrying it in the kitchen to clean up. They have a system. Stiles usually does the cooking and his dad sorts out the washing- clean up effort afterward. “And I couldn’t believe it then,” he calls back from the other room. “How could you still have energy to talk to yourself after the million other things you’d already said that day?”

“It’s the ADHD,” Stiles calls back, eyes already glancing upward to the hall and the staircase leading to his bedroom where more episodes of The Untamed await him.

His dad returns some sort of muffled response but Stiles is already edging toward his room. “Okay goodnight, Dad. Love you.”

Stiles really wants to know if anyone is gonna punch Jiang Chen in the face.

And if it happens that his and Wei Ying’s brotherhood friendship sort of vaguely reminds him of his own with Scott McCall, well that’s his own personal business.

Wanting to punch his own best friend in the face a little doesn’t factor into it.

  
  


The next morning Stiles is rudely interrupted around lunchtime from his The Untamed marathon sleep break on the couch by a knock at the front door. 

And what is it with everyone constantly knocking on his door these days?

Stiles is now up to episode twenty two, and he can’t believe he’s only halfway through the story. It’s so interesting. Stiles literally can’t stop thinking about it when he’s not watching- having happily descended into the complete show binge.

He went to bed at five thirty this morning only because he’d realised the sun was starting to rise outside his window.

Stiles curses the interruption of sleep now, glancing at where he’d paused the show on the screen before the impromptu nap and rolls off the couch without bothering to duck upstairs and grab a shirt to put on, staggering down the hall to see who’s come to ruin his life now.

When he glances through the peephole, Stiles nearly gives up then and there.

Because of course it’s Derek.

Stiles is just about ready to curse Scott to high heaven before he realises that Derek is in fact not empty handed, but holding several shopping bags and looking severely impatient.

“I know you’re there, Stiles,” he mutters through the door. “I’ve got your groceries. Let me in.”

Stiles does but only out of pure curiosity at how this could have possibly come to be. And maybe just a little bit of shock that Scott didn’t orchestrate this. He’s certain that even Scott doesn’t have that much alpha sway.

He unlocks the door and pulls it wide enough for Derek to squeeze through but prudently conceals himself behind the door frame. “And why the hell do you have my groceries?”

Derek heads straight for the kitchen counter before proceeding to set the bags gently on top. “I was at the supermarket and ran into your dad in the parking lot. He was buying groceries on his lunch break but then a call came in and-“

“My dad has you doing his errands?” Stiles demands, still unable to comprehend the sheer idiocy of such a thing ever coming to being.

Derek shoots him a look. “He was stressed so I offered to drop them off for him.”

Oh. Right. Stiles is normally the one who takes care of grocery shopping- since his dad works such sporadic hours. This also gives him the opportunity to exert complete control over his father’s diet and therefore healthy and extended living so it’s an arrangement that works well for both of them.

Well until Stiles turned purple and could no longer leave to go outside. In all the excitement of the week under house arrest, Stiles had completely forgotten about their dwindling food supplies.

Right.

“Huh, thanks I guess,” Stiles says, swiftly dropping his gaze when Derek turns his head to look at him, focusing instead on unpacking the food.

Oh yes. Stiles’ dad _definitely_ bought these groceries. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, close to a huff of frustration and a strangled laugh when he starts riffling through and encountering Contraband.

There’s a jar of pickles, which no because they’re loaded with sodium which could lead to high blood pressure for people his dad's age, some breakfast pastries, which sugar duh, and what Stiles knows used to be his dad’s go to every morning with a fresh cup coffee on the run to the station before Stiles finally put his foot down. And also-

“Are you kidding me? He’s going rogue.” 

Potato chips. Or more specifically, Salt and Vinegar potato chips. More than one bag too.

Honestly it’s like his dad _wants_ to die young.

Immediately he sets all of these aside so they can be hidden in a place where it will never see the light of day- or his dad’s stomach- and sets about putting the perishables in the fridge.

“On the diet you’re enforcing?” Derek guesses, eyes gliding over the Contraband. “Wonder why.”

Stiles makes a disapproving noise and goes back to sorting the rest of the food. Derek helps by emptying out the bags for Stiles to put the rest away in and they manage to work in silence for a couple minutes.

But only a couple.

“I thought you had a thing,” Derek says suddenly. “About being shirtless.”

Stiles glances down at his bare, wolfsbane vine heavy chest- which thankfully has stopped spreading now- and then at Derek who is staring unabashedly at him. He doesn’t immediately fold his arms over his pecs like girls do when they discover their nipples are showing, but it’s a close call.

“I don’t have a-“ he starts, trailing off before they both know it’s a lie. “You should count yourself lucky you get to see me half naked,” is what he says instead.

Derek’s mouth quirks.

“I should, should I?”

“Yeah. Twice in one week- you’ve been blessed. Isaac has never once seen _anything_ and we shared a locker room for two years.”

So maybe he does have a shirtless thing. But it’s a little hard not to when he’s surrounded by chiselled and well-defined werewolves with a proclivity for being shirtless all the time- case and point Derek permanently naked Hale.

It’s a wonder he hasn’t come out of this with more insecurities than he already had.

“I’ll let him know he’s missed out then.”

It takes a second for what Derek’s said to sink in and even then Stiles still doesn’t quite believe it. Is this teasing or something? What the hell? 

“Right,” he responds confidently, though inside he’s squirming with something akin to panic. Is Derek Hale actually maybe sort of flirting right now?

Stiles is not equipped for this and once he’s unpacked everything, except the pile of Contraband- he retreats back to the lounge room in the hope that Derek might slink away, task now completed, in the usual Derek method.

Except he follows Stiles instead.

“What are you watching?” he asks, though he doesn’t take a seat when Stiles does, still miraculously in possession of manners.

“The Untamed.”

Derek nods, but his eyes are fixed on the screen where Stiles last paused it and Lan Zhan and Wei Ying are standing much too close together. Which. They pretty much are whenever they interact on screen. Suddenly the queer subtext Stiles has been immensely enjoying this entire time seems extremely obvious.

Everything’s very gay all of a sudden. Like the gayness in the air is palpable enough that even someone like Derek can pick up on it.

Gaytmosphere.

Stiles is almost waiting to be accused of something. Waiting for some indication of what is going to happen next with this out in the open. Especially with an emotional enigma like Derek Hale.

And now more than ever, is Stiles very interested in seeing his reaction. Since he’s pretty sure a second ago- what Derek was doing could have been classified as flirting.

Only now Derek doesn’t say anything at all.

“Uh- did you want to watch?”

Derek’s gaze is still on the screen before he slowly tilts his attention back to Stiles. “I’ve got to drop my own groceries off. Then I promised I’d drive Erica out to Outback Steakhouse.”

Stiles doesn’t even need to ask any follow up questions for that one. Like it’s _Erica_. Breakfast sandwich enabler. Life ruiner. Of course she wants to go to Outback Steakhouse and of course she’s crafty enough to convince Derek into taking her.

Stiles wonders if the pack has really cottoned on to just how much Derek would be willing to do for them if they asked. Since Erica clearly has.

The answer is still disappointing anyway. Since Stiles was kind of secretly hoping sitting in the gay subtext of this moment, well, that Derek might actually acknowledge- uh something.

“Sure,” Stiles agrees easily, as if he hasn’t been dealt a somewhat crushing blow. “See you round. I’ll just be here. Being purple. And all powerful.”

Derek nods. “You do that.”

Then he heads out without a goodbye, locking the door behind him again.

Well at the very least, he’s consistent.

  
  


“Oh my god,” Stiles says, days later once he’s reached the fiftieth and final episode.

There’s no kiss or anything like that, but it’s enough for Stiles to know at the end they’re together. The way Wei Ying turns, relieved smile opening his face up when a voice everyone can clearly recognise as Lan Zhan, calls his name and they're reunited.

Stiles might admit that his eyes are a little wet by the end of it. Because he’s a sucker for a good love story and this one just blows any others right out of the water.

And Stiles knows about himself that when it comes to love that he can be intensely devoted, but even he has to take his hat off to Lan Wangji. Because _sixteen years_ , and many more of being in love with an oblivious guy the whole time and-

Wow.

It’s just so good. Beating unbeatable odds, one coming back from the _dead_ , investigating and uncovering the real villain of their story together, and finally, finally falling in love- falling back in love again, really.

It’s just. 

_Wow_.

Stiles needs to lay down for a minute and sit in silence to comprehend the sheer beauty of it all.

  
  


When he emerges an hour later, descending to the kitchen to get started on making dinner in time for when his dad comes home, Stiles is moving slowly weighed down by the grief of ending a truly spectacular marathon.

What will he do with himself now? Stiles can’t start another show, can’t bear to look at anything else for a while, head still swimming in the universe of The Untamed.

He’s mourning the loss of it, knowing if he starts something else it won’t measure up. Might not be as good. So there’s nothing to be done about it.

Except feel a bit listless and off kilter for a while until he can recover.

  
  


That night, Stiles tracks down an English translation online of the book the show was based off, rubbing his hands together gleefully when he realises there’s like one hundred and twenty chapters and each one is _long_.

And probably more detailed. And more explicitly romantic without the China viewing censorship.

Then he knows he’s got the next few days set out for him.

At the very least, trapped inside the house all day, at least he's keeping busy. 

  
  


“I’ve lost my mind,” Stiles declares again, once they’ve sat down and gotten started on the Chicken Parm stuffed peppers he cooked this afternoon. 

“What’s that?” his father asks, taking a seat opposite Stiles at the table and sniffing dinner with interest.

Oh yeah, Stiles is totally tricking his dad into eating a healthier Chicken Parmigiana recipe. “I’ve lost my mind,” Stiles decides firmly, loading up his dad’s plate and then his own. “Or I’m in the midst of losing it because I can’t. Fucking. Leave. The. House.”

A week.

A week since the late night snack run. Only a couple days since Derek came over to finish up the second season of ATLA and later that night Stiles spent considerable time stroking his dick to videos of guys fucking each other.

A week of Stiles upholding the impression that those two things are not related. Several days of no sleep, obsessing about a show with two random guys he also wants to fuck each other. Because they’re idiots. Who can't seem to figure out the sexual tension rife between them.

Several more days of reading the English translation of the book online because he wanted to know more of what the show might have missed.

Now on the backburn of an amazing story hangover, mourning that he’ll never be able to experience the joy of watching it for the first time again and with nothing much to entertain, besides more TV marathons Stiles is already out of his mind with boredom.

“You can leave the house,” his father says, mouth twisting only a little in disapproval at the cursing. 

Since confirmation of the supernatural his dad has since relaxed his views on the necessity of swearing somewhat majorly.

“When?”

“When no one can see you,” counters his dad, unfairly.

Which is not at all a helpful answer. This is not some bird box shit- Stiles can’t escape people seeing him if he goes outside.

“At night.”

Stiles splutters a sound of protest. “It _was_ night when I-“

“Late at night. _Later_ than that.”

Oh. Well then. This kind of negotiation Stiles is a pro at. He's already mentally cracking his knuckles.“So what are we talking here? Twelve to four am?”

“Twelve to three. Some people rise early for morning exercise.”

He can’t literally think of anything worse than that. “Freaks,” Stiles agrees cheerfully. “But what you’re saying is between these hours is an acceptable time for a purple boy like me to roam freely?”

His father doesn’t agree immediately. Years of raising Stiles has also deemed him an expert at these negotiations. It’s why Stiles suspects they’re such a hot topic to debate at the dinner table.

“If that purple boy was doing something productive that might alleviate his cooped up feelings- then yes.”

What?! 

Oh no. Stiles can see where this is going.

“You mean run, right?” he sighs, enthusiasm rapidly dwindling. “You’re telling me I can go out for jogs between the time period of midnight and three am? You’re making me _exercise_?”

Does he not understand that Stiles thinks that is the absolute worst way to spend his time?

“What happened to all the bragging about your fitness from running away from the things trying to kill you?”

“That was a means to reassure you that I won’t die young!” Stiles protests, visibly rattled by the turn of events. Negotiations are definitely breaking down. “Do I at least get weekends here?”

“Fraid not, kiddo,” says his dad, shaking his head resolutely. “Too many people out about town later at night or partying- there’s too many opportunities for someone to see you.”

God, he really is the purple monster man being locked away in the basement. Even sans basement the point still stands. “Weekdays,” he sighs, again. “I get jail free time to run early morning on _weekdays_.”

How will he possibly instil fear into the townsfolk this way?

“Take it or leave it because you can always just-“

“I’ll take it,” Stiles says quickly, not willing to entertain what other suggestions his father might have for fighting off the boredom. The stir craziness of seeing the same four walls every day.

He’d probably suggest yoga. Or meditation. Just to be a dick.

Stiles is not built for these things. And he can't just keep endlessly watching TV and jerking off either. But the late night/ early morning runs- maybe that’s something he can work with.

Or at least try to.

Stiles _needs_ to get out of the house.

His father holds his hand out with a sly smile. “Wanna shake on it?”

Oh ha ha.

Stiles draws from previous evidence à la Derek to unleash the most unimpressed look in his arsenal. His father still grins anyway. 

Even at a time like this, Dad jokes are still somehow the worst thing ever invented in human existence.

  
  


Stiles doesn’t know why but being inside for so long is also starting to make him paranoid.

Because he keeps feeling like.

Well.

Like someone is watching him.

And not to be overly dramatic, but right now he’s definitely enough of a visual distraction to be drawing attention.

A couple nights ago he climbed out his window and went and sat out on the roof for a while, just to feel the fresh air for a bit, look at the stars a little and convince himself the world was still moving without him.

He’d been cautious though. Had only climbed out there at two am and sat there for an hour still, thinking, watching the quiet streets, listening to the faint sounds of traffic peeling through the night. Fidgeting when his ass cheeks started to go numb from sitting in one position for too long

Stiles was certain no one had seen him.

And yet the watching thing.

Because he is absolutely certain he’s being watched. Or maybe the house is being watched. Something is definitely rotten in the state of Denmark for sure. Even if Stiles can’t exactly pinpoint what it is.

He doesn’t bother saying anything to his dad, because of the slightest chance that involving him could lead to something dangerous, and also since he doesn’t want his father worrying about his current mental state. More than he already is at least.

He doesn’t tell Scott, because let’s face it, he won’t hear a response for at least two business days anyway. He doesn’t tell Lydia, since her no nonsense approach would probably suggest self-medicating or the very real accusation that it’s all in his head.

Allison would feel sorry for him. Erica would probably laugh. Boyd would offer some advice that he probably assumes was helpful but would only leave Stiles more confused and Kira would probably just suggest he tell Scott about it.

Jackson and Isaac are a write off.

And Derek-

Well Stiles would very much rather not involve him in his daily paranoias if he can help it. Derek probably wouldn’t be very sympathetic or worse yet, he’d take it so seriously that he’d be camped out in his living room for the next few nights babysitting him in case of an attack.

And Stiles really doesn’t want to be Derek Hale’s ward right now.

So safer not to say anything really.

And hell maybe it really is just in his imagination. Maybe he's wrong.

Except there’s that part of him, the weird inexplicable part that Jackson would label freakiness and Scott would insist was magic, that part of him is really _very certain_ that it isn’t.

All in his head that is.

And Stiles would really prefer not to think about that either.

  
  


When he sucks it up and finally heads outside for his first run it’s pushing close to 1 am and he doesn’t even get down the driveway before he notices there’s paper pinned under the windshield wiper of his jeep in the driveway.

Glancing over at the Seberg house, he beelines towards it, untangling his headphones and already rolling his eyes pre-emptively in welcome of the passive-aggressive bullshit he’s about to find there.

He tugs the note free and quickly unfolds it, using the light from his phone screen to make out the words.

 _Please tell your friend to stop driving his Camaro down the street late at night whenever your father isn’t home. His headlights shine directly into people’s houses and are disturbing the neighbours_.

 _From a concerned citizen_.

Safe to say he’s figured out who’s been watching him.

Stiles huffs out a breath. One that echoes frustration and surprise. Not about the letter, that’s clearly the Sebergs handywork. But because in the week and a half of all this destructo recluse bullshit, Stiles is pretty sure that he hasn’t seen Derek driving past his house every night????

He's also pretty sure that he knows exactly what they’re getting at with the hinting Derek only turns up when his father is out of the house thing. Like they’re sneaking around together.

Because they didn’t actually use the word ‘friend’ in the letter.

Flushing hotly, out of annoyance and possibly, possibly a rush of emotion to the head at the suggestion of him and Derek, yaknow _together_ , Stiles scrunches up the note and dumps it in the recycling bin as he heads out onto the street.

At least now he’ll be pumped for the run.

Anger usually does that to a person.

  
  


A day later and Derek comes in through the window again. During the daytime thankfully, Stiles is not in the mood for anymore passive- aggressive notes.

Except he’s not really in the mood for much of anything at the moment. The run had been fun at first, cruising down the empty streets not a person in sight, except for a car that came past on Madison but Stiles just ducked behind a tree and hid. 

But then it got a little weird by the end.

Being cooped up in the house for so long, the wide open space got him all paranoid because Stiles felt like he was being watched there too, which led to him running a little faster to get home and coincidentally smacking into a street sign as he turned a corner too quick.

Also, he didn’t sleep so great after the shower. Finally crashing at around three in the morning. Going outside now apparently means disrupting carefully cultivated sleep patterns.

Stiles groans and immediately throws a pillow at him.

“Hey Dad!” he calls out in the general direction of where he assumes him to be- downstairs in the living room. “Derek Hale is in my room. Bring your gun.”

Derek catches the pillow and doesn’t even stop his stride.

“I know,” comes a voice much closer than Stiles was expecting. “He helped me fix the broken roof tile.”

Stiles glances over in the direction of his father’s voice and realises Derek must have literally passed his father on the roof to get in here and feels a deep sense of wrongdoing has occurred.

Even though that tile has been bugging the two of them for at least a month- it’s gone all weak and cracked and when it rains the water hits it at just the right angle as to make the most incredibly annoying sound directly above Stiles’ bedroom.

Derek, evidently aware that he has taken advantage of his father’s softness and less than handy man skills, smirks and raises his eyebrows at Stiles by way of greeting.

“Get off the roof before you fall off,” Stiles shouts back, and goes to get up before Derek is reaching attacking distance and pushing the pillow directly back into his face.

Instant karmic retribution.

Stiles falls onto the mattress with a muffled curse, only scrambling to push the pillow off when he’s certain Derek’s let go and isn’t actively attempting to smother him.

“I climbed in here when he started going down the ladder,” explains Derek, and Stiles might almost feel oddly touched at how he’s looking out for Stiles’ Dad if Derek hadn’t ruined it by trying to suffocate him with a pillow first.

“Remember a time when my dad’s gun was a threat that actually worked on you?” Stiles sighs, reminiscing of the brief upper hand he’d once held. Before his bedroom had become Derek’s open doorway. “Those were the good ol’ days.”

“No,” he replies, because naturally he’s a dick, and Stiles wants to throw the pillow for a second time.

“So what do you want again?” Stiles asks bluntly. “And do not say you’re here to check up on me because as I’m sure you can see- nothing has much changed in that department.“

“I came to ask you about Ahuizotl. Isaac reckons he saw something that matches its description in the next town over and the bestiary could use some updates.”

“Oh,” Stiles sits up, engaged at once, and somewhat pleased. “Like the thing from Aztec mythology? Shit yeah dude, sure. I’ll do some research.”

Derek nods, then spins on his heel in that anti-social way of his and goes to leave without anything further.

Except Stiles notices the direction of his exit straight away. “Do not go out the fucking window, Derek, I swear-“

Only Derek merely glances back to smirk at him and then in the next breath he’s out the window and vanishing into sunshine.

Stiles might be able to let that go if it isn’t for the fact that he hears his father saying goodbye as Derek departs. Instead of say, lecturing on said appropriate methods of departure from his son’s bedroom. Like maybe through a door instead.

The Sebergs are gonna love this.

  
  


Sometime later after a couple hours of rabbit hole diving research it occurs to Stiles, that Derek was probably lying about the whole thing. Since the Aztecs were a Mesoamerican culture from like the 14th Century or some shit. 

It’s very unlikely that they have monsters running around the town over from Beacon Hills. 

Derek brought it over just to give him something to do. Some kind of task that would let Stiles feel useful.

It’s extraordinarily frustrating.

  
  


The Sebergs own a shitty sedan and Stiles is praying its wipers don’t make a sound as he quietly lifts it up in order to slide a folded slip of paper under it.

The cover of night seems appropriate for this kind of insurgent retaliation to the Seberg's iron hold of the entire street. Stiles is the generation strong enough to rise up, the new rebellion. Viva la revolution!

Also because night is the only time he can leave the house without instigating a riot in his condition. See: still violently purple. That doesn’t make this entire activity any less satisfying though when Stiles quietly releases the windshield wiper, his paper note left firmly in place.

“What are you doing?” someone whispers in the dark behind him.

Stiles spins, narrowly avoiding a shout of astonishment even as his limbs rebel and end up kicking out at the Seberg’s tire in surprise.

It only makes a faint thunking sound.

But even in the dark, Stiles’ animal brain quickly makes out the folded arms and impatient expression of the figure standing in the shadows.

Derek Hale is looking at him as if he’s at the final stage of acceptance that Stiles is not normal. Which is somewhat funny since it’s been nearly two weeks and Stiles is already purpled, tattooed and somewhat fed up with accidentally killing the plants around his house.

The freak train definitely departed a long time ago.

“Don’t sneak up on people like that, what the fuck,” Stiles hisses back in the dark, barely making out the Derek-like planes of his face in the gloom.

Their street only has two working street lights: one that is three houses down and the other at the complete opposite end of the road so Stiles can hardly see shit. Not the best conditions for sneaking around but needs must.

“Are you really running around out here to leave petty notes for your neighbours in the dark?”

Stiles glances back at the Seberg's house, hoping they don’t pick up on the voices in their front yard before he moves forward and tries to push at Derek’s chest, encouraging him back down the driveway.

“Who said it was petty?”

But then Derek instantly darts around him and plucks the note out of Stiles’ carefully placed position before unfolding it to read. He can see it in the dark, unlike Stiles and he hardly catches the glow of red eyes before Derek is turning and the red winks out entirely, reverts to human again.

“It literally says ‘Fuck you. From your secret admirer’ Stiles.”

Stiles goes to grab it off him, but as he can’t see shit he ends up grabbing the material of Derek’s shirt instead. He wrenches his hands back immediately, glad that he didn’t make skin contact, still caught up in the realisation that it’s the first time he’s reached out and touched anyone since the Dunkin’ Donuts incident.

Nearly two whole weeks now.

The gentle snap a second later says the windshield wiper was put back in place again and the glow of white reveals the note pinned under it. He barely gets to grin in triumph before Derek is grabbing the scruff of his hoodie and dragging him along the driveway and across the street again.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles whispers, managing to wriggle free once they hit his own driveway. “Explosive touch means not being able to manhandle me anymore, comprende?”

“You’re bored out of your mind, right?” Derek says rather conversationally considering that was his second almost brush with death in about two minutes. “That’s why you’re starting a turf war with your neighbours?”

Man, he just doesn’t _get_ it.

“First of all the Sebergs are one hundred per cent bastards so jot that down. I’m merely taking a stand against the various injustices they’ve toted out against the rest of the street. I’m the symbol of the rebellion.”

“Are you high or something?” Derek wonders, but it’s not even as a way to be rude, like he’s literally asking if Stiles is on drugs. 

Somehow the sincerity is more insulting in the moment.

“No,” he says. Well. Besides the Adderall anyway and Stiles has a funny feeling that the wolfsbane in his blood is burning through that before it has time to be absorbed. “And this is all your fault anyways. You’re the one who keeps driving over here nearly every night.”

Derek doesn’t protest but Stiles can see the way his figure stiffens.

“Want to know how I know that little fun titbit of information, dude? Since you didn’t feel the need for sharing? Because the Sebergs are _snitches_ who don’t like you shining your headlights into their living room every time you creep out here.”

Stiles almost mentions the fact that they think Derek is his boyfriend- sneaking over so they can hook up with his dad out of the house. But thankfully, his common sense kicks in.

Better late than never.

“Do you want me to deny it?”

“So it’s _true_?” Stiles demands, voicing rising a little in shock, somehow still debating with himself this entire time that the Sebergs were imagining some other man resembling Derek driving down their street at night in an identical Camaro.

What times they live in.

“Would you prefer I act like Scott?”

Scott, with whom Stiles has seen twice since the wolfbane stabbening incident and only spoken to or texted a handful of times since? Fat chance.

But, wow, low blow Derek.

“God no,” he groans. “Two Scott’s is the absolute worst thing we could unleash on the native flora and fauna.”

Derek frowns at him with genuine interest.

“Do you actually think about the things you say before you say them or do they just come out of your mouth?”

Stiles grins.

“You know it’s actually hard to tell most of the time.”

His answer does not impress.

  
  


They usually organise for the pack meetings every second week to discuss whatever monster mash is happening in Beacon Hills at the time- or just to hang out on slow nights.

The thing is though is that the two weeks have come around again since the Dunkin’ Donuts debacle and Stiles is still not really meant to leave the house unless it’s within the hours of midnight to three am.

And here’s the other thing- nobody in the pack gives a shit enough to stay up that long just so Stiles- human, admittedly with a one hundred per cent power boost,- can be there at the meeting. Stiles might be best friends with the alpha, might have wormed his way into challenging the pack’s patience (and also warming hearts) but he is by no means vital to the group.

Which is why he doesn’t mention anything about it in the never ending pack text chain they’ve got going. And which is also why he has zero expectations of emerging from self-imposed exile to socialise with his supernatural friends.

And that’s probably why Stiles is astonished when the lot of them turn up on his doorstep at eight pm on the allotted pack meeting night aka Friday.

Stiles is in jeans and a ratty hoody and suddenly feels very aware of the fact that his hair is sticking up on one side from where he fell asleep on the couch watching a murder mystery with his dad.

His dad who has suddenly disappeared from the living room, quietly checking out for the evening.

Oh.

Stiles smells the distinct airs of one being In On It.

“Oh hey,” he manages, stepping as far to the side as possible due to the sheer amount of people unexpectedly wanting to enter into his household.

“Pack night remember?” Scott says cheerfully even as he edges inside and gives Stiles the widest berth possible in the most obnoxious sense.

Stiles steps further out of the way and lets someone else close the front door behind them. “Didn’t think there was much to discuss,” he says pointedly, very aware of the nothings going on in Beacon Hills. Or at least of being outside of a loop that he previously occupied.

“There isn’t,” Allison agrees kindly, holding what looks to be a small armful of avocados.

Stiles barely gets to raise his eyebrow.

“-what?”

“We’re making quesadillas!” Erica crows, with much relish, always enthusiastic to be eating food.

Stiles still feels like he’s missing a punchline here somewhere but it doesn’t seem like anyone plans to announce it anytime soon. Oh well free food at the very least.

Allison and Isaac dump most of the ingredients on the counter while Kira turns on the oven and then the Erica and Scott get situated by the cutting board in order to start putting it all together.

They zoom through the steps like they’ve done this before- which they have- and like they’ve never eaten food in their lives- which is untrue since Scott walked in the door literally finishing off a hot pocket.

They’re clearly just hungry.

Scott loads up the first batch they’ve made and hands it straight to Kira who puts it directly in the oven, accepting a kiss from Scott on her cheek for the trouble.

"I would still like to make my complaints known about the fact that we are cooking them this way," Scott interjects for what feels like the millionth time. "It's an insult to the quesadilla." 

Erica reaches over and pats at his check. "Scott, Scott, Scott. You naive summer child. This is the quickest way to make as many of them as humanly possible in one hit. You want to cook twenty of them on one skillet feel free." 

Scott frowns and moves out from under her hand grumbling about it even as he accepts defeat. 

The good thing is that they don’t take long to cook. Just five minutes each way, flipping the quesadilla over so it’s brown on both sides.

Stiles, who knows when he’s not wanted or needed, steps well out of the way and lingers there while Scott and Erica get back to putting together more food. They’ll make at least six full oven trays worth of quesadillas just to cover the pack’s bottomless stomachs. Boyd and Isaac start fetching plates out of Stiles' cupboard for them to eat off of which Derek points out the location of, having previously helped Stiles put away his groceries, and Lydia mentions something to Allison about margaritas.

Stiles is more than happy to continue staying out of their way, slightly touched that everyone came to visit even if it comes with a healthy dose of suspicion. Meanwhile, as everyone else appears to be productive, Jackson immediately starts rifling through Stiles’ fridge and helps himself to the last can of coke sitting in it. 

Which of course.

“So,” Allison starts and here we go, Stiles knew there was an ulterior motive tonight. “Boyd thinks he might have caught the scent of one of those hunters last night.”

That’s got Stiles’ attention.

“Dunkin’ Donut’s hunters?” Stiles checks, somewhat surprised. He hadn’t really given much thought to them since but maybe they didn’t really run off into the night as expected.

Maybe they changed their minds before retreating fully. Though Stiles doesn’t know why, the pack practically wiped the floor with their asses, and their murder Scott plan went utterly sideways when Stiles was injected instead.

Kind of hard to bounce back from that failure.

“So you think they’ve got more of that wolfsbane strain?” he wonders, cutting right to the most immediate problem at hand.

In a room full of werewolves, the purple murder juice powerful enough to disintegrate every last one of them seems to be the top priority.

“We’re gonna keep an eye out,” Scott says determinedly, proving he can’t wait longer than five minutes because when Kira takes out the tray in order to turn all the quesadillas over, he snakes one straight off it to start eating.

Erica shoots him a resentful look but that’s mostly because she’s on the other side of the kitchen, out of range of the tray and can’t steal one herself. Scott doesn’t seem to notice her interest. 

“But it’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Lydia confirms with a sudden sense of grimness, pouring herself a glass of water from the tap. “It’s important that everyone stays on their toes. Expects the worse.”

Stiles waves his purple hands in the air. “I think I’m good, thanks.”

Jackson lets out a snort around the rim of the coke can he’s drinking from which very much denies Stiles’ assertion.

“You really think you could face down those hunters?” he demands with a derisive expression. “They could easily kidnap you to do experiments and find out why you’re like this.”

The kidnapping thing hits a nerve. Because yeah, it might have happened to Stiles a few several times- more than the fingers he can count on one hand- but the situation has changed now.

Stiles is so much more dangerous than he used to be.

“Yeah right,” he laughs, rolling his eyes at the thought. “I could totally take-“

In the next second Derek is appearing out of nowhere before his hand is flat against Stiles’ chest and he’s pushing him up against the kitchen wall.

Stiles loses his sentence in the shock of someone actually being stupid enough to touch him. In the surprise of that warm hand anchored firmly against his shirt. Derek is close enough to loom, close enough that Stiles is looking straight into his eyes.

Close enough that he can smell him.

Jesus. 

Stiles swallows the entire english language.

“Powerful, not indestructible,” Derek says meaningfully. “Or untouchable. See the difference?”

“Are you trying to _make_ me kill you?” Stiles finally demands, still struggling to find his thoughts while keeping his hands firmly out of the way.

Derek’s eyes flick over his face briefly before he’s satisfied with the point he’s made and stops pinning Stiles there.

The pack is watching the entire exchange in silence. Scott who’s closest, has a mouthful of quesadilla with no intention of interfering and Jackson is outright smirking at him like he’s withholding the urge to laugh. The rest of the pack are varying degrees of concerned from Kira and Allison who look visibly worried to Erica and Boyd who seem completely indifferent to the exchange.

Isaac is just floating somewhere in the middle closer to apathy than outright concern. And Lydia, well, Lydia’s expression is closed off and- calculating.

Uh oh.

Stiles is definitely not gonna like that later.

  
  


“So,” Lydia says, lingering in the kitchen once the rest of the pack has left and she’s managed to get him alone. “You and Derek seem- friendly.”

Stiles wants to laugh.

“Do we?” he wonders, lacing each word with as much sarcasm as can be humanly squeezed into a sentence.

“Scott said you’ve been spending time together lately.”

Stiles jerks his hands skyward in the well-known gesture of beseeching the heavens. Fucking Scott. Again! “Did he also happen to mention that these moments occurred because Scott was pimping Derek to hang out with me?”

And Derek showed up. Why the hell did he show up anyway? It’s not like Stiles isn’t feeling pathetic and unwanted enough lately.

Lydia’s mouth purses up in disapproval. “No. He did not.”

“Quelle surprise.”

Lydia draws a long nail onto the counter in a pattern he doesn’t recognise. “So- what’s going on with that anyway?”

Man why does everyone keep asking that? How is Stiles supposed to know the answer? “Nothing,” he says, because he knows what Lydia wants to insinuate here and Stiles is really not ready to let her.

But she forges on anyway.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Stiles turns away and busies himself with cleaning up the leftover ingredients from the counter- Erica is surprisingly messy when it comes to grated cheese.

“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Seems like a guy with too much of an interest in pinning you up against different surfaces for it to be nothing.”

All at once the dam breaks. Stiles skin goes red hot and his carefully, stubbornly reinforced wall of indifference crumbles to pieces. And for one breath of a second, everything shows on his face.

Lydia isn’t surprised but she does seem taken aback by the ferocity of it.

“Oh Stiles,” she says softly and then doesn’t say any more for a moment. “What happened to giving up on the all-consuming crushes?”

Fuck. 

Luckily Stiles has recovered himself by then and sweeps the cheese into the bin with deliberate casualness. No further evidence of it left in his expression.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She waits like he’s going to confirm it. But this time he won't. This one Stiles is holding onto for dear life, to be kept only to himself and never admitted upon pain of death.

“You know you built me up,” she says. “In your head. Yes, you know parts of me, but the rest came with unrealistic expectations- and- and inevitably, your disappointment. You know that, right, Stiles?”

Stiles does know that. He knows now that a lot of his crush on Lydia was fabricated from watching from afar and piecing together an idea of her as a person, not actually knowing her. And now, now he knows her better and realises they’re not the picture perfect fit he first imagined.

And he doesn’t feel the same way anymore.

But whatever she’s thinking with Derek, it’s not the same. It’s not the same at all.

“I do know that,” he admits. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t learn my lesson.”

“Okay,” she says, understanding Stiles isn’t going any further down this road, not unless she intends to drag him kicking and screaming. “I’m just worried. I could see how a situation like this might leave you- psychologically vulnerable- and maybe with a proclivity to dive into an intense emotional attachment just to appease your current state of instability.”

So there’s psychoanalysis at play here as well.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says firmly, with the understanding that this may be a little untrue right now. Not that he’s intending to admit anything to Lydia. Certainly not after what she’s suggesting.

“Good,” she says, just as firmly. “I just- I want this to be different for you. In a good way.”

A healthy way somewhat goes unsaid. But Stiles can feel it’s being implied.

“Once again, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smiles at what is currently going unspoken. Stiles pretends not to notice it. “Yeah tell that to the guy who regularly roughhouses with the pack but is only pushing you up against the wall,” she counters, with an artful toss of her hair and the certainty that Derek Hale is definitely singling him out.

Stiles feels his insides flush with pleasure at the thought.

“Wanna watch a movie?” she asks, distracting him again.

“As long as it’s not the Notebook,” he teases, having heard her and Jackson’s previous arguments on the subject.

Lydia’s smile has a glint of steel in it. 

They watch the 2005 Pride and Prejudice instead.

But jokes on her, because Stiles actually loves that movie.

The hand touching scene, man.

The _hands_.

  
  


The thing is, is Stiles knows Lydia maybe might have a point. Except this time no unrealistic, all-consuming crush has emerged out of watching from afar and filling in the possibilities himself.

Oh no. It comes from knowing. From seeing what an asshole Derek is most of the time and being absolutely blown away by the softness he’s capable of in the little moments. When he thinks he can get away with it.

It comes from seeing all those asshole moments too and admiring each and every one of them beyond belief. It comes from the endless snark, the pushing and pulling, the needling, and Derek quietly showing up in the middle of the night to check he’s doing okay.

It comes from actually knowing Derek.

And that’s a million times _worse_.

  
  


Dinner is a relaxed affair the next night. No unexpected pack visits. No harpy’s smashing through the dining room window at mealtimes- which has happened on more than one occasion actually.

Just him and his dad eating the cauliflower baked ziti he spent all afternoon putting together.

At least it’s all going fine until dish washing duty when Stiles is carrying his bowl back to the kitchen and it slips out of his hand, hits the ground and shatters into a million pieces.

“Aw crap,” Stiles mutters when it explodes across the kitchen floor, bits of ceramic scattering everywhere, including over his bare feet.

“Stiles,” his father says urgently and suddenly he’s there, reaching out for Stiles’ exposed elbow unthinkingly like he’s about to pull him away from the disaster zone.

For a second Stiles sees it all happen in one horrifying fast forward. His father touches him by accident, then he gets zapped like those plants and turns to dust right in front of Stiles’ eyes.

His dad touches him, and then _dies_. 

“Dad, _no_!” Stiles shouts, wrenching himself back out of reach of his father’s hands so violently that his spine slams with a painful crack into the edge of the counter.

He slips and falls directly into the glass shards, but the pain is background noise to the crushing fear that is how close he just came to killing his father. 

_Years_ of therapy wouldn’t fix that.

“Stiles?” his father says, taking another step forward, hands outstretched with concern.

His heart is trying to burst out of his ribcage from that close call and still his father keeps _trying to get closer_. To help him. To touch him. 

This is a nightmare.

“Get out, get out!” he shrieks, voice uneven with panic. “Get _away_ from me!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” his father promises, trying to soothe him even as he starts to back off. “Stiles-“

He doesn’t wait for another close call, Stiles jerks out of the destruction zone, ignoring the cuts on his bare feet and the long one on his palm that’s already bleeding everywhere and bolts out of the room and up the stairs.

His heart is pounding, his breaths trying to push their way out of his ribs and Stiles slams his bedroom door closed and locks it, scrambling over to his dresser before pushing it hard, grunting with exertion as it edges slowly across the floor until it’s finally blocking the door.

His blood is all over the wood, the closed door knob and there’s some on the carpet when he drops down, back against the dresser and the panic attack fully sets in.

  
  


Ten minutes later there’s a gentle tap at his door and Stiles still hasn’t figured out how to breathe yet. He’s painfully glad for a second that his father thought his thirteen year old self needed the privacy of being able to lock his own door.

And that he has a heavy dresser that can easily act as a barricade.

Stiles doesn’t reply because any of the words coming out of him would only be an attack on himself. He feels so stupid. So careless. Just when he thought maybe he had a handle on this-

His silence is telling.

But his father is stubborn though.

“Want to talk, Stiles?” he hears through the wood.

And he’s never heard of anything more ridiculous.

“About how I almost murdered you, you mean?” he calls back, hearing how high his voice sounds, how unnatural. “Like literally almost five minutes ago? Sure. I mean why not? Who wouldn’t want to talk about that?”

It’s not steady either. He’s still off kilter, still crying as if that could do anything but provide an emotional release of the feelings he’s struggling to keep at bay. Stiles doesn’t want to face any of this, doesn’t want to understand how much he nearly uprooted the entire world today.

Just when he thought he was getting his life on track, settling into the grooves of adulthood, dealing with this untouchable, disintegrating fuckery the universe bitch slapped him unceremoniously back into reality.

“Look, kid, I know this is hard,” his father says. “And I’m aware it was a close call but shutting yourself away isn’t the best-“

“It’s the best method for right now,” Stiles interrupts firmly, wiping blood on his jeans and finally thinking clearly enough to notice his blood isn't entirely red like normal people anymore. It has a certain purpleish tinge that really isn't that surprising. “And considering how high the stakes are I’m sticking to it.”

Stiles can hear his father sigh. But he won't be convinced. 

“Please open the door, Stiles.”

“Dad, you know that I love and care about you. Please go away now.”

It’s another few minutes before he listens. Because Stiles waits until his footsteps announce it on the second stair from the landing that always creaks when stepped on.

He doesn’t move from the position in front of the dresser though. 

Not for some time.

  
  


Stiles’ phone buzzes at some point in the night when he’s calmed down some and realised barricading his bedroom door with his dresser to prevent anyone entering might have been a little impulsive.

Also can’t really do much about the window entry without wooden boards, a hammer and some nails so- it’s not like the place is locked down.

Stiles manages to push the dresser back to its original home, and by the time he rummages through his sheets to find his phone, his chest is heaving and he’s a little sweaty.

He can already guess who it is. His father probably made some calls after Stiles’ nearly killed him.

It‘s from Scott. But it’s only a text message. Which is somehow surprising.

When Stiles unlocks his phone to read it, there’s only two words typed out.

**you good**

Stiles blinks at it for a second- not actually comprehending. When he made a joke earlier about Scott following up with a you good? text he wasn’t actually considering Scott might do so.

A laugh bubbles out of him, full of black humour and indignation.

Because he knows, he knows that his dad would have called Scott sensing that Stiles was upset and maybe needed a friend to talk to. But apparently nearly killing his dad isn’t worth a follow up phone call. Scott didn’t even type out a question mark in the damn message.

Stiles’ wellbeing isn’t even worth a fucking _interrogation point_.

“Fuck _you_ ,” he mutters, tossing his phone back into the pile of bed sheets with some force. It bounces unsatisfactorily before vanishing beneath a pillow.

It’s actually getting comical now, the degree of non-effort Scott is putting into this whole situation. Which is why Stiles isn’t going to shoot back a text conveying all the honesty of what he’s feeling and a short but succinct, **NO**.

Instead, his eye catches the clothes hanging in his open cupboard, a plan already forming in his mind.

Oh yeah. He’s gonna Joey Tribbiani this shit instead.

  
  


Derek stops by almost an hour later. As if Stiles summoned him with werewolf scooby snacks or tight fitting shirts or something.

Stiles is so bummed out about nearly murdering his dad that after relaxing the door barricade he’s acquired a ridiculous amount of layers instead to be certain no one can get anywhere near his skin.

The results of that being he looks incredibly stupid and he’s sweating desperately in said layers when Derek climbs through his bedroom window.

“I heard about what happened,” he says, and doesn’t add the ‘with almost murdering your father’ bit though Stiles can see it all written on his face.

The fact that he felt entitled to climb through his window to tell him as much seems on par for the type of day he’s having.

Stiles doesn’t even bother to be shocked.

“This again,” he mutters without much welcome or enthusiasm. 

He sounds petulant, Stiles is well aware of that but he doesn’t even care. He’s the one who has become a figurative poisonous dart frog overnight, pettiness is pretty much encouraged at this point.

Derek doesn’t seem particularly offended though he does pause at Stiles’ get up. And his nostrils flare a little.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m aware,” Stiles answers with formality, having tried to mop most of it up with some of the tissues he had sitting on his desk. He'd stopped bleeding eventually, but Derek can probably still smell it.

“That also doesn’t look comfortable,” Derek observes, very unhelpfully because he is in fact Very Unhelpful.

Stiles glowers at him. “Yes, well we all know I can rock a modest amount of layers.”

Derek’s eyes rake pointedly over Stiles’ lumpy form. 

“That is an unnatural amount.”

“Well I almost killed my dad!” Stiles snaps. “So if this is what it takes to stop murdering him I’m sticking with this until the end of time, pal.”

Derek just stares into his eyes for a moment unblinking.

“…Pal?”

“Shut up,” Stiles says, colouring deeply because his usual brand of mockery and sarcasm is somewhat lacking tonight. “I had a totally traumatic experience today and I’m gonna need a few more hours before I can string together witty rejoinders.”

Stiles wants to be more offended about this except unfortunately he knows that this is Derek’s own way of coming to see if he’s alright. To check up on him. And it’s even harder to ignore the fact that Scott hasn’t even tried calling him after that first disaster text.  


Because, naturally.

It’s a sad day when your sort of half-nemesis is a better friend than your literal best friend but Stiles has kind of reached the end of his rope for surprises today.

At this point nothing could faze him.

“As formidable as your witty rejoinders sound,” Derek starts obnoxiously, before taking a seat on the edge of Stiles’ bed. “I came here because I thought I might have a solution for you.”

That gets Stiles’ interest. He tries to sit up to show that he’s listening but the layers he’s wearing are so heavy and restrict his movement too much that he falls back onto the mattress in an undignified heap. He lets out a huff of dissatisfaction and Derek actually snickers, watching him struggle.

It is a sound of genuine amusement. Derek Hale. _Amused_. Stiles must have heatstroke.

“You’re the worstttt,” Stiles groans, but finally admits defeat and starts wriggling out of the top layer of his hoodie. “I don’t care about your pretty solution you can totally eat it.”

“Eat it?” Derek echoes, looking at him carefully. “Do you have heatstroke?”

Stiles snarls angrily and flings the first hoodie in Derek’s face which he half catches so the full force of his rage is not entirely felt. “No. But if you don’t get to the point I’ve got about six more hoodies that I can shove up your ass.”

Derek smirks but when Stiles gives him a warning look and starts squeezing out of the next layer, he seems to realise that he’s not just talking smack.

“Okay, okay,” Derek says. “I have an option. There’s a cabin about an hour out of Beacon Hills that we- that my parents used to own. Since you seem to be getting more dangerous-“

“Not by choice!”

“And after today’s close call with your dad,” Derek continued as if Stiles hadn’t interrupted. “Well I thought maybe you’d want-“

“To go and stay in some isolated cabin in the middle of the woods far from civilisation like the freaky, purple Boo Radley monster boy that I am?”

Derek unleashes his most powerful unimpressed look and Stiles knows that he cannot win in the woe-is-me department. Not with King-woe-is-me-nearly-everyone-I’ve-loved-is-dead Derek Hale is present. Unfortunately Stiles can’t attain victory in this my-life-is-a-disaster round, though arguably now he probably has a higher chance of gaining pity points.

“Unless you’d rather die of heatstroke first.”

Stiles is struggling to get the third hoodie off when Derek helpfully reaches forward and tugs on the material so the elbow lock Stiles seemed to have magically twisted himself into is freed and he’s one layer lighter.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Stiles grumbles. “One slip of the finger and you’re werewolf powder.”

Derek shrugs and throws the hoodie back into Stiles’ face as if he’s being helpful. “I was careful, Stiles. Contrary to your popular belief I’m not actually trying to get myself killed.”

“You’re gonna have to back that up with some cold, hard evidence buddy.”

Derek’s claws pop out.

“Oh please,” Stiles grumbles, and it’s a sure sign that all his tricks are getting old when Stiles’ heart rate doesn’t even skip. “You’ve _got_ to get some new material.”

Derek ignores him and embeds them into the marshmallow lump that is Stiles’ chest, dragging his hand down. There’s a tell-tale ripping sound and Stiles jerks back with a curse.

“Hey I _like_ these clothes!” he protests. “What’s with the ripping?”

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” Derek says, shrugging and unapologetic. 

Stiles hates to admit Derek might be a little bit right about that. 

It’s getting harder to breathe unencumbered and Stiles feels like he’s quietly simmering inside a fabric based oven. Like when he’s been in a bath tub filled with hot water too long and is starting to feel like that slow boiled frog except it’s just his meaty organs leisurely cooking.

The ripped hoodie means it's simpler to drop another layer and Stiles starts removing clothes a bit more frantically.

“You’re just gonna work yourself up more,” Derek points out, unfairly reasonable. “Take it slow-“

“Shut-“ Stiles’ voice gets muffled underneath the next hoodie. “Up.”

“How have any of the number of supernatural beings we’ve encountered never killed you,” Derek mutters to himself in almost disbelief. “When you’ve literally just been defeated by your own clothes.” 

Stiles definitely resents that.

“I am full of mysterious talents,” he offers, in a very dignified and ominous tone for one fighting a flannel with his bare hands and ultimately failing. “And I happen to look great right now.”

When he keels over to the side, Derek doesn’t feel the need to give that statement any kind of rebuttal. Probably because Stiles made it too easy for him.

“Oh whatever,” he mutters finally getting free and flinging the flannel in Derek’s general, irritating direction.

When he’s down to the last layer, Stiles remembers that he didn’t put a shirt on underneath, and twice in his life is the only amount of times he’s comfortable with a dude like Derek Hale seeing him with his shirt off. 

Or anyone else really.

Stiles knows he’s no swamp monster, but maybe right now he’s a lot closer to resembling one than he did before.

Derek catching him in his boxers the other day had been a real low point.

“So where abouts is that cabin again?”

It's time he start accepting the reality of the situation. 

Exile is really the only way to go. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me over a year ago when I started writing this: ooooh and Stiles won't be able _touch_ Derek, will have to social distance and isolate at home oh the angst, the _tension_.. who wouldn't want to read about this
> 
> me now in the middle of the covid-19 pandemic: thanks I hate it :)
> 
> Lol also I lied again. Only one more chapter now to end the story, I promise!

When the jeep rolls up to the address Derek gave him- over an hour and a half later because the directions he supplied literally made no sense and had Stiles driving in what was definitely circles for about fifteen minutes before they finally ended up on the right dirt road, the absolute fucker- the cabin is, well it’s not the freakiest thing in the woods.

Case and point Stiles, but it does look like it could possibly be the background for a particularly bloody horror movie if someone had knives, the cover of darkness and felt particularly enthused by the pursuit of hunting people.

But hey it’ll do.

The only downside is the ride- as Stiles has long since realised was much more of a straight shot than Derek’s initial instructions suggested- which takes about an hour. And that basically rules Scott out from ever visiting- his attention span for _Stiles_ doesn’t even last that long how is it meant to survive the drive over here?

It also eliminates any visits from those in the pack who don’t have cars and/or the chutzpah to strong arm someone else into driving them over. Which rules out Isaac- no loss, Erica- slightly disappointing, Kira- Stiles still isn’t sure of her deal yet as they haven’t really bonded, Boyd- that could have been fun and Cora- which, well probably safer.

It’s not like Stiles will die alone with his own thoughts or anything so in the grand scheme of things it ain’t that big a deal. He will cope. But it's still not exactly a comforting thought. 

Stiles clambers determinedly out of the jeep to survey his surroundings, resolved not to use his critical eye to, well, critique everything and plunge himself headfirst into a pessimism spiral.

His father pulls up in his cruiser five minutes later- because he was also subjected to Derek’s vague and confusing directions to his murder cabin- alone because after nearly two hours of debating and needling and challenging, he was unable to convince Stiles to share the car with him. Though he’d argued heroically, and tried to use his fatherly wiles to cajole and gently soothe, even at one stage offering bribery in the form of agreeing to sign up for the gym to better his health- none of which Stiles succumbed to. 

Also because Stiles will need transportation at some point in future if he ever elects to re-join society again- hence the jeep.

What he’s not expecting, is his father to pull Derek aside while the rest of the pack is already busy inside intently exploring Stiles’ new living quarters for the next indefinite amount of time he will remain here. Scott’s in there too and he’s spoken all of two words to Stiles since he arrived with Kira. Stiles is not in the mood to make a scene. And brutally murdering his best friend kind of falls into that category.

So Stiles is happy to ignore him for the moment.

His father on the other hand. Stiles can spot his parent mode from a mile away and admits to feeling a spike of fear at having it directed at Derek, whom is not smiling as is default, but appears to be agreeing sincerely with whatever the sheriff is saying.

Stiles, who doesn’t like that one bit, dumps his duffel bag on the grass and stomps on over to reach them.

It’s not like he can pull his father aside to talk or gain his attention in any way that Derek won’t instantly be aware of. Because werewolves. And also destructo touch. So he doesn’t bother with subtlety.

“Dad, stop talking to Derek immediately.”

His father sighs and half turns his body towards Stiles. “Excuse me, Derek, I have to deal with what appears to be a facsimile of my son without possession of manners or awareness of social cues.”

Derek doesn’t smile at him but does fold his arms in disapproval, the muscles bunching up tantalising to show their displeasure beneath his shirt because fucking Derek, mountain man of the tight shirts. If there’s any part of Derek that can emote flawlessly it’s his muscles.

“We’ve met.”

Wow. Stiles rolls his eyes as far back as humanly possible. He might see the hidden space behind his eyelids for a hot minute. “Oh har har,” he retorts. “And thank you for the overly complicated directions you gave for getting here- that’s an hour and a half I’ll never have back.”

Derek only shrugs but Stiles is already moving, a little out of ways since his father is now following obediently after him, attention successfully captured. Codename Papa Fuzz is on the move.

Stiles very much does not glance at Derek as they walk away from him because obviously, he can hear everything they’re saying anyway. So moot point has been reached.

“Okay so care to explain why you’re dad-lecturing Derek again?”

His father glances surreptitiously at Derek, like he’s about to warn Stiles to lower his voice because he’s clearly forgotten that Derek is a werewolf and has an open broadcast to what they're saying. “I was merely reminding Derek that you are now in his care and that-“

“I’m not _living_ with Derek,” Stiles says quickly, very aware that there’s also a werewolf pack inside that can hear their conversation right now. “Are you kidding? I’d be charged with his murder within the first 24 hours.”

His father is not amused by this.

“With his history in gross miscarriages of justice, you’d probably get away with it.”

Stiles feels somehow that his opinion has been made. “Exactly, so feel free to stop acting like I’m a Victorian woman in need of a chaperone. It’s just Derek.”

His father actually snorts.

Which Stiles elects to ignore and keeps powering through like a champ. “And I will be one hundred per cent responsible for looking after myself, thanks. I can wipe my own ass and everything.”

“Gross, Stiles,” Scott shouts from the living room, giving up all pretence that he and the rest of the pack aren’t hanging on word for word.

Oh so he _is_ capable of acknowledging Stiles’ existence and is just choosing not to huh? Good to know. Gritting his teeth, Stiles reverts back to the ignoring Scott plan again. His chime ins are so not needed, thank you.

The sheriff makes a face and Derek makes a face at Stiles across the yard. Stiles is satisfied by his role in bringing this all about.

“You’re gonna give me check ins. Weekly. Twice a week even. Or I’m driving out here, Stiles. I mean it.”

His dad is not in the habit of making idle threats. Stiles salutes him as enthusiastically as possible while trying to limit the amount of cheek in the act. It’s a thin line to walk but he could do it blindfolded by now.

“Done and done.”

Then he goes to join the rest of the pack inside to inspect Derek’s murder cabin more thoroughly. “Hey who else got here like hours later on Derek’s shitty directions?” he asks the pack at large as he steps inside.

Most of them are nodding at him but Lydia’s the only one who frowns and actually unleashes one of her doubting-your-intelligence looks.

“If you can’t figure out why, then I don’t need to tell you.”

“Well then,” Stiles replies, a little startled by her sharp answer before meekly going to join Allison in what appears to be the bedroom. 

It's coincidentally located as far away from Scott as possible who seems to be testing out the rug by the fire that Erica is messing around with.

There’s no hidden meaning for Derek being an asshole it’s just the natural state of things.

Obviously.

  
  


Stiles starts his exile by cracking out the contraband. It’s been previously stored in a secret location in his bedroom ever since his father tried to smuggle it home so Stiles felt no compunction about relocating it to Derek's murder cabin.

Just because it’s bad for his father doesn’t make it bad for him.

When the rest of the pack leaves, Stiles explores the cabin a bit more thoroughly, hand constantly returning to the bag of salt n vinegar chips and happily munching away as he engrosses himself with what appears to be Derek’s impressive book collection, stacked up against the living room wall because it's already spilling out of the bookshelf next to it. 

Wow what a nerd. 

There’s a lot of things he hasn’t actually read here, so Stiles can see some way to occupy his time for the near future- the glory of working internet will escape him for a least two days, Derek explained.

He spots Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables and picks it up automatically while trying to wipe the salt off his fingers. Mostly because of the deep and instant connection he feels at the sight of it. Stiles and this book are kin. 

He is aware that the book is about the history of a foreign country and the Paris Uprising of 1832 but the point is that Stiles is also Les Misérables and feels like he can relate in spirit.

He carries the book over to the armchair by the fire which Erica was helpful enough to start for him ten minutes ago, the pyro, and sits down to read.

  
  


Jesus Christ the book is long.

Stiles doesn’t know if his attention span will win out against it.

But maybe by the time he finishes it his own period of Les Misérables will be over too. At the very least he’d like to stop resembling Barney the purple dinosaur. Stiles’ life goals at the moment are reasonably modest.

He would also like for someone to be able to touch his dick too at some point in the future without melting.

So there’s that.

  
  


It seems fitting somehow that his first night in Derek’s murder cabin is a full moon.

Definitely matches the aesthetic of the place. And potentially sets the stage for mystery and prospective horror.

When the moonlight comes streaming in through the kitchen window around nine thirty, Stiles nonchalantly thinks he might go out and have a better look, and then marvels at the sudden realisation that he can _do_ that now.

Go outside.

Anytime he wants.

Game changer.

Stiles throws on a hoodie since he can see the breeze outside is strong enough to push the branches around like they owe money. He slinks out onto the porch next, glancing automatically around for serial killers before walking around the side of the cabin to where the moon is spilling light down onto the wood of the porch.

He sits down, thoughts somewhat peaceful and gets comfortable, back pressed up against one of the beams holding up the roof. It’s nice he thinks. Stiles can see the stars a little better than he can at home and that’s barely an hour away. Light pollution is a funny thing.

The moon looks kind of awesome actually. Mysterious as is her way, high above the trees and barely hidden by a cloud passing briefly across, shielding the light before it eventually clears. It’s eerie enough that Stiles can sort of see why supernatural creatures- werewolves obviously- like to give her so much attention.

“Looking good girl,” Stiles says, wishing he could get a photo but no matter how fancy phone cameras get, pictures of the moon never seem to come out properly.

She’s a lady who clearly likes her privacy.

He realises suddenly that he’s a) alone in the middle of the woods and b) talking to the moon since it’s his only companion at the moment and can’t help but reassess the situation and laugh at himself.

“Wow,” he says. “Not even 24 hours. Even Jack Torrance didn’t lose his shit so fast. Good one, Stilinski.”

He sighs and watches the moon for a little bit longer before the breeze becomes too persistent and forces him back inside.

That doesn’t mean he can’t still enjoy it though. Stiles locks the door behind him then goes about switching off all of the lights so the moonlight can stream in properly. The Hales clearly have a thing about wall to floor windows because there’s one in the dining room and it’s coincidentally in the perfect spot to lay on the floor and watch the moon from.

Or maybe not so coincidentally. Werewolf family after all.

Stiles doesn’t bother to get up and get a pillow or anything, somehow comfortable in the position and lets his mind wander aimlessly, slowly resolving himself to his new reality.

It’s not so bad out here. Stiles isn’t really even that worried that he’ll get lonely. Scott’s C minus friendship efforts notwithstanding, Stiles actually doesn’t mind his own company that much.

It’s his thoughts that can sometimes be the problem.

  
  


Stiles almost falls asleep on his spot on the floor in front of the window until he hears the sound of an engine and lights flooding through the kitchen window next.

He sits up at once, heart jumping around in his chest at the possibility of a confrontation. The cabin he’s staying in literally doesn’t have neighbours that’s how secluded it is- nobody around for miles.

“And nobody to hear you scream,” Stiles says aloud, twisting out of sight of the window and slipping up against the corner of the room, ducking low so as to stay out of sight.

Fuck. Fuck. He waits, listening quietly until he hears the crunch of boots on the gravel which means whoever was in their car got out.

That is _not_ a good sign. Stiles nearly curses, but he’s too busy frantically thinking of who it might be. It can’t have been the pack- most of them aren’t the type to drop by unannounced and he left his phone in the bedroom. He took it off silent mode for the night in case his dad wanted to call and check in so he knows for a fact that no one called ahead to warn him.

So who the fuck is outside right now?

Stiles moves carefully toward the door, wondering what he should do. If they’re here to attack he’ll need to defend himself except if he actually kills them that removes any chance of interrogation. And/or discovering any nefarious intentions.

Which is not especially a great outcome. Stiles glances about the room for a weapon and literally comes up with nothing in the short time it takes for the wooden steps to creak and announce the person outside is very much approaching the door.

A moment later, Stiles hears the unmistakable, horrifying sound of a key being inserted into the lock and the door starts to swing open.

Oh shit. _Shit_. Stiles doesn’t think beyond survival, he just rushes forward wildly with his hands outstretched. Except the person in the doorway steps neatly aside, a little too quickly for a human and lets out a familiar, exasperated sound.

Stiles knows that particular brand of exasperation anywhere. 

“Derek! What the _fuck_ man! I was about to dust you.”

Derek only glances down at his hands and frowns. “Considering where you were aiming- I don’t think you were.”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Stiles demands, feeling at his chest as if to check his heart didn’t make a break for it in the last thirty seconds. “I thought you were a serial killer or something!”

Why the hell is he here? And who the fuck doesn’t call first? Stiles is still too much in a state of shock at Derek’s arrival to be as overpoweringly angry as he should be.

“And here I was thinking- spending your first night in an unfamiliar place maybe you wouldn’t mind someone checking in.”

Stiles cannot believe the nerve of him. His previous state of shock makes a spectacular one eighty into irritation. Since Derek brings that out in people. 

“Does it seem like that worked out well for you, huh Derek?”

Derek is pulling a face at him in the dark, Stiles can only see a hint of it but he knows it's there. Striding over to the light switch and flicking it on seems the safe bet so that's what Stiles does. Derek's appearance in the doorway is abruptly brought into higher, much more disconcerting relief.

Stiles folds his arms at Derek first, a clear gauntlet thrown to his usually bulging muscles.

Derek elects to ignore it. “Since you seemed to have such a problem with the way I was going about it before-“

“You mean the driving down my street every night to check up on me without my knowledge? The actual stalking thing you were doing- that’s what you mean?”

Derek grits his teeth.

“Which is why I drove in this time and came up to the door.”

“But didn’t knock like a normal not murderer person!” Stiles shoots back. “Who just lets themselves into a cabin in the middle of nowhere late at night?”

“I do,” Derek retorts, the absolute madman. “Because it’s _my_ cabin.”

Good to know there weren’t any strings attached when he offered it in the first place then isn't it? 

“Oh my god and you figured giving me a heart attack first was the way to go about it? Didn’t think to use one of the many capabilities of your cellular phone to say _make a call_ or text a pre-warning of your arrival first?!”

Derek looks at him carefully for a second, in a way that tells Stiles he’s _really_ looking at him. With a supernatural edge. Stiles does not appreciate being werewolf scanned by Derek Hale. If he’s reading chemo signals so help him Stiles will make good on his promise to murder Derek within the first 24 hours of staying here.

“Okay. Fine,” Derek says and then doesn’t speak again, though Stiles stands there expectantly and waits for more.

“Is this your weird way of saying, ‘Yes Stiles you were right and I should have knocked and/ or texted first’?”

Derek takes a steadying breath and folds his arms across his chest. Uh oh. Arm muscles engaged. Derek is emoting. Or something. “Yes, Stiles,” he agrees to Stiles’ utter astonishment. “You were right and I should have knocked and/or texted first.”

Huh. Werewolves can be taught. Scott was clearly an outlier and should not have been counted.

Stiles jaw seems to drop away from the general location of his mouth. And then to make matters even worse, Derek adds, “Sorry.”

“Are you-“ Stiles glances at Derek suspiciously for a second, narrowing down the chances of bodily possession. “Are you feeling alright?”

Derek stares at him like he’s lost his mind which seems fitting somehow because that’s entirely the same way Stiles is looking at Derek right now. There is a lot of staring at one another happening. Stiles is pretty sure Derek stopped blinking a minute ago.

“Is it really that unbelievable that I would say sorry to you?”

Stiles knows he doesn’t want to be caught answering that question.

“Um-“

“- right. Do you want me to go?”

Stiles does not like that question either. Mostly because he doesn’t think he can answer it without blipping on the werewolf radar. “Go? Seriously how did you even get _in_?”

“The front door,” Derek replies, the utter asshole. “There’s a spare key tucked in a loose floorboard on the deck.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that when I was _moving in here_?”

Derek’s face is doing a thing. Where it looks like he’s repressing something or at the very least trying to figure out how to express an emotion. Words, Derek, Stiles barely resists saying. Use your words.

“Look sorry. You’re right I shouldn’t have just let myself in. But I got here and all the lights were off and it’s too early for you to be asleep so I thought- maybe something happened to you. Maybe you were gone.”

 _Taken_ more like. That's definitely what he's implying. Because he may as well carry a frequently kidnapped card at this point for perks.

Stiles feels a shiver in the air but pretends that he doesn’t. Ignoring Derek’s apparent insider knowledge of Stiles’ current sleep schedule, the concern for his safety might actually be a little bit agreeable to him. 

But only a little.

He did nearly scare the entire shit out of Stiles a couple minutes ago.

“I switched the lights off because some random car pulled up in the driveway of my cabin in the middle of nowhere and I thought it was down to murder or be murdered.”

Somehow he doesn’t feel like admitting he was actually lying on the floor admiring the full moon to a werewolf. Seems tacky somehow.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Stiles snorts at that. “Do not even pretend to be sincere you motherfucker because as previously stated, I was contemplating homicide.”

“Good of you.”

“Well I’m upfront about it- so- so any sudden movements in my direction from now on let’s just say- you’ve been warned.”

Derek finally stops lingering in the doorway and closes it behind him, stepping further into the room. “Great. Thanks.”

Abruptly the conversation comes to an end and Stiles realises he’s alone. In a cabin. In the woods. With Derek. Who moves over to the living room like it’s his house- which it is- and sits down on the couch to apparently make himself comfortable.

Stiles doesn’t bother to question it- just follows after him, pausing when his feet hit the rug. Call him crazy but the rug is directly in front of the fireplace, the wood crackling sporadically in the grate every now and again since Stiles hasn’t wanted to let the fire go out since Erica lit it.

And well. To his knowledge people tend to fuck in front of fireplaces of cabins in the woods.

Or at least that’s what most of the tender lovemaking scenes in books and movies seem to advertise.

“Oh my god I _wish_.”

“You wish what?”

Stiles tears his gaze away from the rug and realises he’s stupidly spoken some sensitive things aloud. “What? Nothing. I mean, yes you can stay. Whatever.”

Then dumps himself on the couch in polite distance to Derek. Hard to pull off the indifferent vibe though when he’s got the image of him and Derek naked and sensually entangled in front of that fire already imprinted in his brain.

Jesus.

He really should have jerked off in the shower earlier.

  
  


Morning time is now for running. As the time of day has now been unlocked for him, permitting Stiles into the great outdoors, he’s interested in being a purple streak of a man flitting through the forest and getting his blood pumping.

So he gets dressed in his running gear and tries to go outside.

He barely makes it past the clearing, eyes focused on the uneven soil, the rocks and raised roots sticking out of the ground- all hazards for someone like him. Then weirdly enough that scene from the beginning of the movie Twilight pops into his head.

The bit where the deer is running through the woods and Edward basically comes out of nowhere and catches it, basically bear hugging the thing before the scene cuts out and it's implied that he’s eaten it.

Stiles does not want to be eaten.

He stares into the trees, enthusiasm to run in there rapidly dwindling.

Oh whatever, he didn’t really have the energy for it anyway. Stiles retreats back inside to lay on the couch with a groan.

Another day of staring at four walls.

Even if they are a new set of walls.

Yippee.

  
  


Another day later when working internet arrives, Stiles celebrates by watching porn all day. 

He jerks off in bed, starts off with girls and guys and then the videos shift into guys only since that’s where his interest seems to be situated at the moment.

He watches dudes plough each other for hours, stroking his dick when it gets hard again, coming all over his shirt, not even bothered to clean himself up properly as he clicks through video after video.

Stiles doesn’t even have the energy to cook anything either, just staggers out to the kitchen every now and again to eat random things that require no effort.

He manages to shower in the afternoon though he somehow comes out feeling dirty. And maybe a little pathetic and disgusted with himself.

Derek’s murder cabin seems to bring out the self-hatred in him.

Dinner is two minute noodles.

  
  


The week passes and nothing much changes.

Stiles can’t seem to cook any real food besides noodles. Nor does he wear anything more than underwear, changing only when he searches for porn or jerks himself off again out of boredom.

He’s already eaten all the snacks in the cupboard- can’t bear to ask his father for more food because he will see that as a red flag and has now resorted to eating slices of bread. And Nutella straight from the jar with a spoon.

He doesn’t have the attention span for a book right now. And watching something new just feels like too much mental effort.

So Stiles is just staying in bed all day doing nothing.

Life’s great.

  
  


“Come on.”

Stiles blearily opens his eyes at the afternoon sun spilling in through the bedroom window.

“Cha-whaa?” he wonders groggily, barely able to lift his head up.

“Come on,” the voice repeats again firmly, much too firmly for the fuzzy, half asleep state of Stiles’ brain right now.

But Stiles looks up dutifully and there’s Derek hovering over the mess of blankets and not so subtly scenting the smells in the room, Stiles’ sweat, spunk and generally unwashed body for one.

That’s one update he probably didn’t need. Well that’s Derek’s own fault for sniffing about places he shouldn’t then isn’t it? And he probably doesn’t smell that bad. Stiles is pretty confident he showered yesterday. Or the day before. Definitely once this week.

“You need to go outside,” Derek say in the kind of tone that isn’t remotely a request.

“Since when?” Stiles grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut in protest of everything.

“Since you haven’t left this place in days. And you smell like you haven’t showered all week.”

Evidently not a subtle aroma after all. “Also days,” Stiles retorts unhelpfully, then under his breath. “Probably.”

“Well enough. What happened to your jogging plan?”

“I still run.”

“No, you don’t. And don’t even try to bullshit because I know you haven’t been keeping it up since you got here.”

Stiles doesn’t want to know how he knows that. How does Derek have enough time to fit in all his brooding activities and _still_ stalk people?

“Maybe I’ve done enough running then.”

“You literally did it twice last week.”

Stiles rolls over to deliver an unimpressed expression Derek’s way. “Have you been stalking me again? Seriously?”

“No, your Dad told me.”

“Ugh,” Stiles sighs, flopping back onto the bed. “Snitch.”

“You need fresh air.”

“What I need,” Stiles grouses, lifting himself up into a semi-seated position. “Is to not be a purple looking dust maker. But we don’t always get what we want. Eh, Pacha?”

Derek frowns at him, but doesn’t seem inclined to budge on the matter or swan out of the room without another word like Stiles was privately hoping. “Quoting Disney films doesn’t lend any credibility to your argument, you realise that right?”

Stiles blinks up at him.

“Wha- you know-? I mean you knew what I was-“

“Ugh,” Derek makes a sound that is very put upon before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do you keep- I have _seen_ a TV Stiles. I didn’t grow up in an Amish compound or whatever.”

“Right,” Stiles replies around a yawn, burrowing back into bed. “And you’re here why, again? To tell me that? Good for you, man.”

“I know what this is,” Derek say simply. “Don’t try and pretend otherwise-“

“Pretend what?” he moans, wrapping himself tighter in the duvet and firmly avoiding Derek’s eyes. “I’m just clearly out here living my best life.”

“Don’t,” Derek says, and his voice sounds harsher, filled with strain. “ _Don’t_ , Stiles. I know what this is, okay, I _know_. So just- let me help you.”

Stiles wants to roll his eyes. He wants to make a snap comment that will piss Derek off enough that he’ll storm off and never return but-

Well Derek has been the only one in the pack making a real effort to see Stiles after he became dangerous. He even gave him a place to stay when Stiles couldn’t cope with being near his dad like this. And here he is again, coming back to check up on Stiles when a simple text or phone call could have been enough.

Scott seems to think it is.

But then again Scott’s not exactly the best measure of good friendship practises these days. So why is Derek _here_? And making pointed observations about Stiles’ inability to function at the moment.

Then Stiles' brain replays the way Derek’s voice cracked and wavered over the words ‘I know’ and suddenly he can’t do it.

“I’m not depressed,” he sighs. “I’m just- like in a funk, yaknow? Going through it.” 

“I know what this is,” Derek continues determinedly. 

“It’s a shitty clusterfuck of a situation is what it is.”

“I’ve been in it Stiles, and I need you to know that it won’t always be like this. You’ve got to keep fighting. You can’t just give up.”

Stiles curses and rolls over and away from him with an insufferable groan. “What if I want to give up.”

A second later and there is the sensation of Derek’s hand, strong and unyielding as it grips his shoulder tightly under the fabric of the blankets, fiercely yanking him onto his back. A steady thud of terror beats in Stiles at the touch. 

At the risk of it. 

But Derek pulls him over. Forcing eye contact.

“Don’t even think about giving me that bullshit,” he snarls. “Not when you’re literally fighting me in this conversation right now. Just like you struggle for every other inch of vindication and maddening, infuriating achievement you gain in life. You don’t know how to give ground. Or give up.”

Stiles had been down this road before and it had spat him out the other side; jaded, one parent less and unperturbed by the inevitability of death, in everyone but his father. Trapped by the fleeting instances of truly happy moments.

“Maybe I don’t,” Stiles mutters, but makes no move to get up. “But just because things are less than a hundred per cent right now doesn’t mean I need to be cosseted.”

Derek isn’t going to accept that however. “So prove it. Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Stiles grunts because he knows Derek is just going to stand there hollering at him until he gets up off his ass. “But I’m not showering.”

Derek shrugs and steps back. “Why do you think I want to take you outside?”

Stiles refuses to be offended about that. Because then Derek wins. And that thought is unconscionable.

So he drags himself out of the bed, stomps over to the closet where he’d half unpacked his things a few days ago before accepting the reality of spending his entire college break here, alone, and gave up on it in a fit of feeling. 

Stiles puts on pants because they are a vital staple for Going Outdoors and he’s sure this is uncomfortable enough for Derek without Stiles walking around with important articles of clothing absent.

He is tempted to accuse Derek of pitying him at this moment except Derek’s kind of the last person on earth who’s focusing on their compassionate side. Not that Stiles is declaring him unfit for expressing that emotion or anything, just that he’s not the type to be doing things he doesn’t want because he Feels Bad.

That’s enough to convince Stiles to wear pants. He manages his ratty pair of sneakers next but doesn’t bother to change shirts, because if Stiles is suffering he’d prefer it, from the highest level of pettiness possible, that Derek will be suffering too.

And since everything here is very much sans Scott and nothing but Stiles and his imagination and pressing destructive thoughts, that means that he has a lot of pent up frustration to expel.

So wilderness.

When he’s finally wriggled into something resembling an outfit, he stomps out to the empty living room. Stiles knows better than to think Derek’s ditched him, so he keeps moving until he’s outside and spots Derek standing by the edge of the trees, peering intently into the unknown.

Stiles skates past the Camaro and resists kicking the tires out of spite when Derek turns, now with sunglasses to unleash an absolute shithead of a smirk at him while the sun beats down on them both.

“I hope you get an absolute nightmare of a sunglasses tan, I swear to god,” he offers with his own thousand watt smile and a two fingered salute, pushing past Derek or at least the one metre space adjacent to Derek as he enters the obvious hiking trail that’s sat here for years and years and Stiles has literally only just seen right now for the first time.

He hasn’t been outside since he and father drove up in the cruiser and jeep respectively.

“It’s nice to have dreams, isn’t it?” Derek counters from somewhere beside him, sounding much too upbeat for Stiles’ sanity.

He edges a suspicious glance his way. “If you’re planning on killing me outside then I’d recommend you do it hands free.”

Derek rolls his eyes and doesn’t even bother to reply. Stiles is more offended by that than anything else he thinks.  


The trail hasn’t been used in some time. Leaves and twigs snap under the crunch of his shoes with each step. And the silence between them feels even more suspicious.

“So why are you here again?” he demands, grateful and unappreciative of Derek’s strange attempt to lighten his burden of self-imposed exile and current emotional devastation.

Unthinkingly, Stiles moves to push a branch out of his path and in a second the entire tree dies. He and Derek watch in silence as there’s a large crack as if the wood has been snapped in two and then the tree withers and turns to ash.

Stiles coughs when some of the dust goes into his open mouth. And when he spits it out on the dirt it eats a hole through the soil like acid on metal. 

What a great start indeed. _Wonderful_ idea Derek.

“Because if you kill me,” he splutters, trying to be nonchalant when he’s breathless and his heart is pounding and they’re both staring at the spit sized wound in the ground. “I can guarantee it won’t be remotely satisfying.”

Derek doesn’t respond immediately, though he neatly steps aside when Stiles trips and nearly stumbles into him.

“It’s nice to know you have some self-preservation,” Derek says without a lick of concern which ha! Pot meet kettle. “And I’m here because if you kill me you’re bound to feel the least guilty about it as opposed to if it was someone else in the pack.”

Wait- what? Record scratch. Back up a moment.

Did he just say- ? No way. 

“ _What_?” he yells, more out of misbegotten rage then any real sense of attempting to unravel the mystery of Derek Hale’s messed up thought process. “Why the fuck would you even say that?”

Derek blinks innocently at him and then starts walking ahead. “Isn’t it the truth?”

“Um no?” Stiles says looking at Derek like he’s lost his mind before scrambling after him along the trail. “We all know if I was sacrificing a pack member it would be Jackson first, no question. Then maybe Isaac if Jackson wasn’t somehow readily available. You really don’t rank that highly on my list.”

Derek makes a disbelieving noise and turns back to frown at him. It is a classic got-no-shits-left-to-give Derek frown.

“C’mon, Stiles that’s such a lie. You hate me.”

Stiles trips again and destroys an oak tree with mild gusto. He really needs to be more careful with his hands, he’s bound to suffocate from all the destructo dust floating about everywhere. And is more than likely contributing to the air pollution right now.

When he catches up with Derek, the trail is thankfully wide enough to walk with them both sort of side by side, though Stiles stays as clear of him as he can.

Even if Derek is _really_ testing his patience today.

“Where in the entire realm of possibility did you come up with the idea that I hate you? Aren’t you meant to have werewolf senses and general observation skills? I worry for you, Derek, I seriously do.”

Derek frowns at him again but this time with genuine incomprehension. “You do hate me though. Remember that time you sent the cops after me-”

“We had literally just discovered the eviscerated corpse of your sister literally _buried_ in your backyard. I said literally twice to emphasise how very _not normal_ that was, Derek. Also you were lurking in the remains of your burnt out house like some creepy squatter. Really wasn’t much of a stretch, dude.”

“What about when you punched me in the face?”

“Oh you mean when you were actually unconscious and it was a life or death situation? Yeah Derek how _didn’t_ you feel my bubbling hatred for you then.”

“Or-“

“-That time I saved your life?” finishes Stiles. “Or that other time or _other_ time, you know when I could probably have left your little werewolf ass for dead and lived a perfectly happy existence-“

Derek lets out a grunt of frustration. “That right there is why it made perfect sense when Scott asked _me_ to come over to your place and keep an eye on you. I’m expendable.”

Honestly what kind of fucked up mental gymnastics is Derek doing daily if that’s a notion that makes sense to him.

“So you thought _that_ ,” Stiles cries, still incredulous at what backwards shit is living in Derek’s brain. “And you _still_ showed up?! What the fuck, man.”

Derek shrugs again. Stiles is starting to think that’s all he’s capable of anymore. “It made more sense than someone who happens to be very vocal about their dislike for me, suddenly deciding they wanted to spend time together.”

Stiles stuffs his hands beneath his armpits to stop himself from gesturing too hard and accidentally annihilating Derek in the process. Because just his luck these days. 

“Listen very carefully: I. Don’t. Hate. You. But I’d kill off Jackson in a heartbeat. See? Hear what the truth sounds like?”

Derek pauses only once his senses finish off the argument for him, and then quickly changes tact. 

“You can’t kill off Jackson. Lydia would know it was you.”

The fact that Derek mentions Lydia first and foremost proves he understands where the true danger lies and Stiles has to appreciate a man with common sense. Or at least some modicum of it. 

Derek’s common sense levels are on shaky ground enough as it is.

“Are you trying to irritate me into murdering you?” demands Stiles. “Because even if I’m tempted I’ve already got enough murders under my belt thank you very much.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Wow two murders, you’re a real Ted Bundy.”

Stiles’ jaw drops in outrage. _Outrage_. “How fucking dare you-“ he protests. “You have the effrontery to question _my_ murdering skills which are not at all insignificant I might add and-“

He pauses and looks at Derek. Gives him a real stink eye. But Derek is just looking back at him with his usual irritating-beyond-belief unruffled expression. “Are we about to have some weird people-we’ve-murdered dick measuring contest?”

Derek’s mouth twists into an unforgiving line. But his answer is in no way timely.

“…No?”

The pause isn’t followed with any real sense of finality so Stiles waits for it. Until Derek opens his dumb mouth again.

“-But if we _were_ -“

“Do _not_ say you’ve murdered more people than me. I won’t take that kind of disrespect this early in the morning.”

Derek pointedly turns his head to where the sun is starting to set over the trees. 

It could be submitted, if it pleases the court, that Stiles has slept away the whole day again. “It’s like three p.m., Stiles.”

“The disrespect,” Stiles hisses firmly, and hits a stone with the edge of his sneaker, watching it skitter away into the path ahead of them.

“Are you out of breath yet?” Derek wonders, with the intent to be as unhelpful and blunt as possible.

Stiles flings a prickly glance his way.

“I spent _one_ day in bed-”

“ _Liar_.”

“Half a week in bed,” amends Stiles. “Which at this point I absolutely believe I am entitled to because this whole purple freak thing? It’s no Bueno.”

“No es Bueno,” Derek corrects.

“I’ll kill you,” Stiles declares menacingly. “I’ll smack the life right out of you with this hand.”

Derek snorts and strides forward into the woods as if Stiles threatening to kill him, and actually possessing the staying power to do so, is somehow completely meaningless to him.

Stiles is both affronted and strangely relieved by the display.

“So where are we going exactly? Like is there a destination to this exercise in wilderness or are you just gonna make me walk in circles for half an hour?”

Derek pushes a branch out of the way and doesn’t stop his pace. “Give it ten minutes and you’ll see.”

He could at least try to be less vague. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Oooooh I’m positively giddy with suspense.”

Derek shifts his head to give Stiles a look over his shoulder. “You know, the fact that no one can hit you anymore means this is probably the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Stiles flips him off and barely resists pointing out that people could _probably_ still hit him- if they used a weapon or punched him in the gut or something but that’s probably not the greatest thing to tell Derek when he seems less than impressed with him at the moment.

So, his usual chipper self basically.

Ten minutes later though, Derek is in fact true to his word. The trail they’ve taken straightens out and then they’re moving downhill and emerging into what looks a lot like-

“A football field? What the fuck is a football field doing all the way out here?”

“That gas station we passed through when you first arrived- about six miles from here with the closed down buildings around it- that used to be the main town.”

Stiles follows Derek down towards the field. The grass is a little overgrown and patchy in some places but Stiles has to admit that the flat surface appeals to him greatly. He might not have had the energy to run lately, but a tiny little part of him also knew he wasn’t vertically gifted enough to be running uneven trails in the woods anyway.

He might also have a niggling intuition that Derek knows this too and that’s why he brought him out here in the first place.

“So what happened to the rest of the town then? Alien abduction?”

“No, the main industrial factory closed down. Laid off the whole town basically and everything else went with it. So- Ghost Town.”

Stiles glances at the abandoned goal posts and feels a strange sense of wistfulness. He wonders how far away the school is or if this was just one of those common fields for the community to use together before it all went to shit. “Creepy.”

Derek shrugs but doesn’t disagree. Stiles appreciates that about him.

They walk a few laps around the field, and Stiles tries his very best not to let Derek notice he’s panting a little by the end of it. Somehow he’s pretty sure Derek still detected this anyway. He also doesn’t mention that it’s the perfect place for Stiles to go running. At this point he doesn’t need to.

That doesn’t mean that Stiles hasn’t noticed the gesture. Or felt the thoughtfulness of it.

God, _what_ a bastard.

  
  


The thing is though. Is that Stiles wakes up with such an incredible boost to his mood the next morning that he can kind of, begrudgingly, see Derek’s point.

Lying in bed all day, not showering, watching porn and jerking off, isn’t really the kind of stimulation he needs right now. Nor is it remotely going to make him feel better about any part of this situation. 

The whole point of coming out to the middle of nowhere was so that his dad wouldn’t have to worry about him.

Personal hygiene choices aside, Stiles probably hasn’t been taking that great care of himself.

So it’s time to start making some changes.

  
  


Stiles is sleeping somewhat peacefully when something nudges his foot. At first he’s willing to chalk it up to an invading racoon or something but then he’s nudged again, harder, unforgivingly.

Which probably means a person.

“G’way,” he groans without bothering to roll over onto his back and inspect the person who somehow got into the cabin and is most likely going to kill him.

“Huh,” says a familiar, Erica sounding voice. “You’re not dead. Derek said you were dead.”

“Dead tired of people breaking in here,” Stiles retorts, finally summoning the energy to move now that threat of death is off the table. Threat of bodily injury still remains however, if he continues to ignore Erica now that she's here.

“I didn’t break in,” she says, smugly. “I used-“

“Do not say the key hidden under a loose floorboard out front. Do _not_.”

“-the key hidden under a loose floorboard out front.”

Stiles groans and rubs at his eyes.

“I hate you. Can you feel how much I hate you?”

“That’s nice,” she replies, sounding much too lively but he attests that mostly to the fact that she’s succeeded in annoying someone and is pleased about it.

Erica has a very specific skill set.

A skill set that also does not involve driving capabilities. Stiles sits up against the headboard and starts to frown. “Wait- how did you get here?”

Erica grins again, and triumphantly unveils Derek’s keys with a quirk of her red lips. Ah. So that’s why she’s in such a good mood. Being a little shit and pissing people off, namely Derek, and breaking the rules all in one is like her Christmas come early.

“I also bought these,” she says, and with another flourish unveils two bags which clearly have Dunkin’ Donuts labelled on the outside and is followed by the smell of bacon.

“Too soon,” Stiles says, but makes grabby hands at it anyway.

Erica smirks and tosses him one of the bags. They can’t possibly still be warm if they're from Beacon Hills. But when he catches what is clearly a bagel bacon sandwich combo it’s actually hot to the touch.

“You know my dad doesn’t play favourites and will still write you tickets for speeding.”

Erica smiles again, showing off her blindingly white teeth among the red. “Good thing I didn’t get caught then, huh.”

“Guess so,” Stiles agrees, trying not to smirk himself as he drags the wrapped bagel sandwich out and sinks his teeth into it.

Erica climbs on the bed next, without a lick of protest to what is likely a lingering smell of pathetic, indolent inactivity and boy spunk, sitting opposite him as she tears open the packaging on her bagel sandwich too.

“Did you go to the same place?” he wonders, between bites. “I thought we were all banned.”

“Oh we are for sure,” she agrees, crossing her legs, combat boots shaking off a little bit of outside’s gravel onto the bedspread but Stiles doesn’t mind that much. 

The sheets desperately need a wash anyway.

“But they used a pretty shit image from the surveillance camera. I just wore my hair up and took off my jacket and nobody asked questions.”

She takes another bite with a happy noise, chewing silently for a moment before smirking again. “Well one particular employee did ask questions.”

Stiles thinks he knows where she’s going with this.

“Oh did they?”

“Questions regarding my relationship status and the digits of my phone number.”

Stiles finishes chewing and lets out an impressed whistle. “Noice.”

Erica grins and flicks her hair up off her shoulder dramatically, which is somewhat ruined by the sauce lingering at the corner of her mouth. 

Stiles lets her have it though. She brought him food. And she’s the first non-family, non-Derek member of the pack to visit him out here. And she even stole Derek’s car to do it.

That’s another tick in Stiles’ book.

“So you fucked up then?” she asks after a beat.

Hmm.

Stiles figures the gift of a bagel bacon sandwich combo warrants some honesty.

“Maybe a little.”

Erica nods like it’s no big thang. Going back to her food like it’s the most important thing to her in this moment. Which fair.

Stiles has to admit he appreciates her brand of concern. Scott would just bombard him with questions and sit awkwardly on the corner of the bed looking like an electric shock would send him flying out of the room any second.

Erica is much more subtle.

“So,” she says, before taking another bite. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Something,” Stiles says, because that’s the acceptable answer. Even if he’s at the point of possibly meaning it.

Erica nods at him, a slow encouragement of his decision.

“Start slow,” she says, popping the last of the sandwich into her mouth. And how did she even eat that so fast? “If the only thing you do all day is brush your teeth than do that. Routine helps. Exercise is important- I know everyone says that and it’s because it’s true.”

“Right,” Stiles says, somehow not offended. Erica’s advice is- surprisingly sound. A little too rational for her even. What happened to grand theft auto Erica from a second ago?

Stiles goes back to tackling his bagel sandwich, not even halfway through it but actually feeling weirdly okay in the moment. Erica was a surprise. A nice surprise. Stiles is all too appreciative of people willing to steal cars to come out here and see him.

It’s the thought that counts.

“So,” she says, scrunching up the paper bag into a ball and tossing it in the direction of the kitchen sink. Her arm is so good it crosses the dining room and flies all the way into the kitchen, hitting the stack of dishes Stiles hasn’t washed in a week before bouncing off onto the floor.

“You been destroying stuff?”

Stiles finishes chewing a particularly crispy strip of bacon and raises an eyebrow at her. “What stuff am I meant to be destroying?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, keeling over until she’s laying comfortably on her back on the bed. “Whatever you want to? The trees outside. These sheets. Go wild.”

Stiles knew that was coming sooner or later. Erica pointedly wrinkles her nose at him. Then dumps more dirt from her boots onto the covers.

“Thanks for that.”

“No problem,” she says. “Wanna go outside and wreck some shit?”

Stiles considers the suggestion thoughtfully, taking another generous bite of his sandwich. But really what has he got to lose at this point?

“Yeah alright.”

Erica’s grin is positively wicked. 

  
  


Stiles doesn’t bother to change out from his boxers and t-shirt, just scrambles into a pair of sneakers one handed, still carrying his breakfast as Erica leads him outside, pausing on the porch so they can look out into the wilderness together.

“What do you wanna pulverise first?” she asks, actually rubbing her hands together like a super-villain.

Stiles glances about the clearing before gesturing half-heartedly at one trunk leaning too far to the right, practically lopsided and about to go under.

“That tree is kinda ugly.”

Erica makes an elaborate bow, throwing her hands out to hearten his movements in that direction. Stiles merely sighs in response, takes another bite of his sandwich and heads off the porch and over toward the hideous one.

Once he reaches it, he glances back at Erica who has followed him about half way before determining that to be a safe distance for herself. She eggs him on again with a particular gleam in her eye.

“This will end well,” Stiles mutters under his breath, then reaches out to place his hand on the bark.

He barely has the sensation of it beneath his palm before the tree is gone.

“Whoa.”

Erica bounces on the balls of her feet, grinning back at him. “How’d that feel?”

Good. Pretty fucking good actually. It’s a weird rush using the power on purpose. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, as if that sums it all up but Erica seems to understand him anyway.

“Wanna go again?”

She barely needs to ask this time. Erica knows she’s got him.

  
  


Her phone rings twenty minutes later when they’re laughing and Stiles has crawled through the underbrush to get at a particular bush he didn’t like the look of.

The expression on her face tells all as to the caller ID when she glances down at it.

Derek. Definitely.

Who apparently does not appreciate people stealing the Camaro. Stiles is still laughing when she answers the phone.

“Uh huh,” she says, making a face at Stiles from where she’s standing.

He can’t help it. He laughs again.

Erica snaps her head up alertly, then her smile turns wolfish. “Why yes it _is_ , Derek.”

At this point Stiles has had enough of senselessly removing things from the woods now, and the fun of it all is slowly wearing off again. Basically he just spent the last twenty minutes gardening. Which is somehow- less entertaining.

“Oh probably because we’ve been putting his powers to good use.”

He winces at that. Erica shouldn’t have said anything. Derek’s going to get all Derek-y about it. Which is not what he needs right now. He trudges his way back over to Erica, sensing she probably needs to leave now that Derek’s figured out who has his car.

“Relax, Mom I took the long way here.”

So Derek does admit there’s a long way and a short way to get to his dumb murder cabin. God, Stiles _knew_ he was messing with them all when they first arrived here together.

He and Erica start walking back to the cabin in silence. Listening while Derek no doubt chews her out over the phone. Stiles can’t tell what he’s saying exactly but he’s definitely talking a lot. Erica doesn’t seem remotely bothered. Or chastised. Derek’s really lost all alpha sway these days.

Not that Scott really does any better.

“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts finally. “I’m bringing it back, god chill.”

Derek says something else then Erica glances over at Stiles.

“Fine. One sec.”

She removes the phone from her ear. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” Stiles protests, but holds his hand out so Erica can drop the phone into it.

Stiles glances down at it as if he was expecting it to disintegrate before cautiously raising it to his ear. “I didn’t do anything,” he says stupidly, certain he’s in danger somehow.

Derek sighs into his ear. It actually brings out a shiver obvious enough that Erica notices and visibly smirks at. She might be just as aware as Lydia which is a very dangerous thing.

“Tell that to the trees surrounding my parent’s property.”

“-nothing that would permanently impact the environment.”

“That’s not at all comforting, Stiles. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Bye.”

He grins and hastily tosses the phone back at Erica like it's a hot potato, hearing Derek’s protest as he’s effectively cut off. Erica catches it deftly then raises her other hand and hits the call end button.

“Oops. What do you know, my finger slipped.”

“It happens,” Stiles shrugs, trying to appear solemn.

Erica’s teeth seem sharper for a second. That’s the problem when it’s just the two of them. There’s no one else around to stop them being little shits together.

Thick as thieves, his father would call it.

At this particular moment, Stiles doesn’t entirely hate the analogy.

“Better take back the Camaro,” she says, tinkling the keys and dragging a pair of sunglasses out of her jacket pocket.

“Don’t fill the tank,” Stiles commands, gleeful at the thought of Derek’s expression when she finally pulls into the car park of his apartment complex.

She snaps the sunglasses on with a final salute as she rounds the car to reach the driver’s door. “Wasn’t gonna.”

Ah sweet, troublesome Erica. She will do great things. Stiles salutes her back, trailing over to Derek’s murder cabin with a spring in his step that wasn’t there before when he hears her rev the engine enthusiastically behind him.

Oh yeah. Derek’s gonna be _pissed_.

  
  


Stiles starts with the bed first. Drags the cover and the sheets from the mattress before dumping it in one giant pile in the washing machine out by the laundry room.

The machine is fairly old and makes a random clunking noise every couple minutes but it works fine.

He hauls out a fresh set of sheets out and lays that on the bed next, feeling oddly satisfied with himself.

He'll get to the dishes next. 

One thing at a time.

  
  


He finally decides to exercise that afternoon.

Stiles is barely halfway down the trail he walked with Derek to get to the football field before it starts to rain. 

Sprinkling mostly so Stiles doesn’t really take it as an incentive to turn around. And besides the weather has been warm all day, it’s only a little overcast.

He should be spending some time outside. Or at least exerting himself somehow. This is probably the only time ever when Derek’s advice might actually apply to something in a way that actually makes sense and that Stiles is willing to listen to.

A few minutes later when the sky opens up and a deluge of water comes pelting down on top of him, soaking through his shirt in seconds and drenching his sneakers, Stiles instantly regrets his moment of weakness.

Taking Derek’s advice?

What was he _thinking_.

“Of course,” he says to himself. “I mean it’s not like the universe isn’t already unloading its prime rib level bullshit on me lately. What’s a downpour?”

Except the sky rumbles ominously a second later.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles shouts, instantly picking up the pace back towards the cabin because it would be just perfectly in line with the general scheme of things lately that he get struck by lightning trying to return inside.

A second later and the sky flashes alight, a loud crack rendering the sky in two and that’s when Stiles legs it, cursing Derek and the various health benefits of regular exercise. By the time he makes it back to the cabin his shoes are making an unpleasant squelching sound and there’s rivulets of water trickling down Stiles’ face.

He tosses his shoes off onto the porch, tilting them upward so the water can run out onto the wooden porch and they’ll dry properly before heading straight towards the shower, discarding dripping articles of clothing on the floor as he goes.

Twenty minutes later, Stiles finds his phone where he left it on the mattress and fires off a text.

 **Hey Derek** , it says, **fuck you.**

No, he will not elaborate at this point in time.

  
  


There’s no response until fifteen minutes later when he’s warm again and wrapping himself up in a towel as he emerges from the shower.

**Feel like providing any context to that?**

Of course. Of _course_ even Derek’s response would somehow be more infuriating.

 **No.**

Stiles never said he was a mature person.

  
  


The next morning he rolls over with a sigh, the dream already seeping out of the edge of his consciousness. He remembers the feeling first. The vagueness of the details didn’t seem to matter that much as they usually don’t in dreams.

He has to admit after the sheer volume of porn he’s been consuming the past few days the PG limitations of his subconscious are somewhat surprising.

That’s not to say it wasn’t a _nice_ dream.

A dream involving Derek Hale is almost guaranteed to be nice.

If of course the horror aspect is turned down to minus eleven and there’s no hint of blood or Derek crunching on dead animal bones or reattaching and healing horrific injuries that would permanently disable regular humans.

But nope. Not this time. Just Derek. In his bed, lying next to him. 

Sleeping. Peaceful.

And Stiles carefully watching over him. 

It’s not hard to see why he would enjoy dreaming about something like this. The intimacy seems more present even with Derek’s clothes on. The trust is there too.

The implicit edge of Derek giving him something precious. Rare. Coveted and unseen. A private moment, not shared by the constant interruptions of a pack with no concept of boundaries or secrets.

When Stiles realises he’s smiling to himself, he huffs out a breath, one that attempts to exhale the sudden rush of affection and feelings overtaking his thoughts.

He can’t just lay about being all lovelorn for Derek. That’s so embarrassing. So instead he tries to imagine Jackson standing in the corner of the room and what his expression would be like in this moment and that seems to snap him out of it right away.

“You’re fucked, Stilinski,” Stiles says to the open air, not sure if he’s mimicking Jackson or his own internal monologue.

For once though, they both seem to agree with each other.

  
  


His phone rings in the middle of cooking himself dinner.

It’s Allison.

Stiles answers immediately. “You okay?”

“All good- nobody dying,” she responds just as quickly and Stiles can breathe easy again. “Just wanted to check in.”

“Oh,” he says, pleased and not sure how to show it. “Uh- cool. I’m just cooking dinner.”

“What are you making?”

“Chicken pot pie?”

Stiles has only just put it in the oven and is now in the midst of cleaning up the mess he made of the kitchen. 

“Oh yum, comfort food. Hey you got any good recipes? I’ve been thinking I want to cook for my dad more often. He’s been hitting the takeout pretty hard since Mom died. I think he's lost his love for it since he used to cook for her.”

Stiles winces.

“Yeah sure. I’ve got heaps of stuff. Depends on how healthy you wanna go- I’ll send you through some recipes.”

“Thanks,” Allison says warmly, sounding genuinely grateful. “Hey are you okay, really okay? I know this has really sucked for you and Scott is being- well Scott.”

Stiles considers the question. “I think I’m fine or getting towards the general locale of fine. Since Scott is- Scott, I’ve mostly been by myself.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard from Erica,” she says with a playful edge. “I was thinking about coming over to check in on you but then Lydia also said you’re already being well taken care of.”

“Huh?” he says, confused. “Who are you talking about?”

Allison only pauses for a second. “Who do you think I’m talking about, Stiles?”

Stiles drops the cutting board into the soapy dishwater with an unmistakable thump. Uh oh. 

“My dad?” he lies, heart already beating a little faster.

Did Lydia tell her?

“Lydia did say you were playing coy,” and oh god, Lydia _did_. Stiles is going to strangle her.

“I do _not_ have a crush on Derek,” he protests immediately.

“I never mentioned Derek,” Allison replies innocently and Stiles can practically see her grinning through the phone at him.

Oh no. Stiles doth protest too much. He curses and drops his hold on the cutting board again.

“You guys suck,” he decides. “Why do secret crushes have such a short shelf life in our friend group?”

He’s only willing to admit such a thing to Allison, because unlike with Lydia the admission doesn’t come with the threat of needing immediate action. Allison isn’t going to force him to declare his undying love for Derek like Lydia would. She's not the type to sit on her feelings.

“Because our friendship group is 90 per cent werewolves?”

Dammit she makes a good point.

“Do not spread this around,” he warns. “It’s already reached too many people already.”

The hidden crush status has been severely compromised.

Allison snorts. “Stiles, I’m pretty sure the entire pack is aware.”

Stiles dumps the cutting board again with a splash, soapy clumps taking suddenly to the air. “How?” he demands. “I’ve been completely subtle the entire time. Way more subtle than I usually am!”

And it’s true! Stiles has refrained from dropping everything and staring abashedly at Derek whenever he enters the room, and he’s just barely resisted purchasing gifts he thinks Derek might like and leaving them on his doorstep.

Not to mention he’s hardly even hit on Derek. Well. He’s made the effort to try not to.

What the hell?

Allison laughs a little, but it’s not unkind so Stiles can forgive her for finding this situation amusing. “Stiles _you_ might have been- but he is not.”

Stiles stares down at the phone screen as if that might magically show him Allison’s face.

“What?”

“He’s not being subtle. Like at all. Really, Stiles.”

Oh. Oh no. His cheeks are getting warm. Thank god this is only a phone call. “I think it’s important for my reputation that we change the subject, Allison. Let’s talk about your love life instead,” he suggests, meaning to stop her short.

“Okay,” she says with no hesitation at all- to his utter bewilderment. “So there’s this guy I met last week-“

“Where?” Stiles demands, knowing full and well that the only suitable bachelors roaming about Beacon Hills go by the name of Derek and Hale.

Really, it’s slim pickings in Beacon Hills these days. Probably because most people their age end up being their enemies or young corpses. Beacon Hills will always be a dumpster fire make no mistake.

Allison launches into the story anyway, a real meet cute between her and some guy at her local coffee shop- which in Stiles’ opinion is just riddled with red flags but he has an overdeveloped sense of paranoia- and how they’ve already exchanged numbers.

But she’s pretty sure she shouldn’t call yet for fear of her dad catching wind of him and potentially scaring the soul straight of his body.

Chris is capable of such things.

It’s oddly soothing listening to other people’s problems. Stiles doesn’t mind it.

And he certainly doesn’t mind having someone to talk to.

  
  


Stiles caves that night and finally decides to watch Frozen 2. 

He hasn’t seen it yet and it’s kind of one of those movies that _have_ to be watched at some point. At least in Derek’s murder cabin nobody else is around for miles to judge him for it. 

Stiles is halfway through a bowl of popcorn, ranting at the TV because of course Ana and Elsa are separated for the entire movie again _how original_ \- when there’s a bang at the front door.

He upends the bowl with an undignified shriek, scattering popcorn everywhere whilst frantically searching for the remote previously buried in the gap of the couch cushions to change it or switch the TV off altogether and pretend that Frozen 2 wasn’t something he ever did in his spare time.

He cannot live that down. Jackson would practically die with happiness if he knew.

Stiles’ hand closes over the remote just as the bang comes again, heart pumping wildly even as he hastily turns the TV off and abandons the bowl now resting on its side on the rug and the popcorn strewn literally everywhere in favour of answering the door.

“Friend or foe?” he demands through the wood before throwing his hands up. “Oh whatever who cares at this point.”

He yanks the handle and next second Derek is spilling into the hallway, paler than usual and followed by a particularly long arrow. It takes Stiles’ brain a second to realise the arrow is following him because it’s actually embedded in his back.

Derek’s been shot by an arrow. What the fuck.

“What the fuck?” Stiles reiterates because this is an eventful state of affairs. “Did you know that there’s an arrow sticking out of you?”

Derek grits his teeth and staggers forward a step before dropping to his knees. “I’m aware.”

Stiles scrambles around him and quickly shuts the front door, locking it. “So, again what the fuck? What are you doing here? How did you even get here? Why didn’t the pack-“

“It’s doused in wolfsbane,” Derek spits out and suddenly he’s raising his hands and Stiles can see how painfully swollen and red they look.

“How many times did you try to pull that out by yourself before you figured that out!” Stiles shouts at him, darting around Derek and looking at his back, where the arrow is buried just below his left shoulder before feeling sickened and hurrying around to face him again.

“A few times.”

“Jesus,” Stiles says, very near hysterics. “Why the hell did you come here?”

“I need you to pull it out.”

Oh hell no. Not this again.

“You’re _insane_ ,” Stiles insists, trying very hard to ignore the long metal thing poking out of Derek’s skin.

Actually he’s pretty sure it’s a bolt from a crossbow, not an arrow. Which is somehow worse. “Why did you drive an hour out of Beacon Hills when you could have gone to Scott’s mom _at the hospital_ , or my dad or Lydia, or Allison or literally any other human being that would have been willing to help you.”

“Because,” Derek says, wincing through the pain. “I didn’t want the look.”

“What look? Are you out of your goddamn mind?!”

Derek manages to straighten up, so it’s less like he’s collapsed to the floor and more like he willingly knelt there.

“Stiles. Take it out. Please.”

Stiles puts his fingers to his eyes, closes them, and unleashes several inventive swear words before rubbing a hand over his head and decidedly skating around Derek to reach his back.

“I swear to god you’re so lucky right now that you’re not asking me to saw off another body part like last time.”

“Just. Yank. It. Out.”

Stiles wraps his hand around the bolt, at the end not currently stuck in Derek in order to keep his hands as far away as possible and tries to tug.

“Motherfuck,” Derek shouts almost immediately. “What are you _doing_? Just pull the damn thing out in one go.”

“I’m not strong enough,” Stiles yells back at him, stressed and annoyed that Derek has the gall to critique his technique right now. “I need to brace myself-“

Stiles props his socked foot on Derek’s spine and wraps two hands firmly around the bolt.

“Just assume I said something to annoy you if that helps.”

“That does not help,” Stiles shoots back, determined to distract himself somehow. “How did you even get here with your hands like that? I bet your blood is all over the Camaro.”

“I drove with my knees,” Derek winces out. “And I laid down a towel.”

“You’re such a-“ Stiles yanks, really putting his weight into it this time and the bolt finally tugs free. “Dick.”

Derek lets out a long groan and drops onto his side, swollen hands raised up so they don’t hit the floor, aiming not to knock his injured shoulder against the wooden floorboards either.

Dude is a _mess_.

“Don’t make sex noises at me. What do we do with the wolfsbane poisoning?”

Derek twists his head in order to glare at Stiles so he still has some liveliness left to him. That's a good sign. 

“Relief and pleasure are two very different sounds,” Derek manages a second later, still seeming much too breathless for Stiles’ liking.

Oh man. He really needs to concentrate right now.

“Shut up. Wolfsbane. Poisoned. You. Is this raising any sense of urgency in your supernaturally reinforced skull?”

Stiles glances down at the bolt still in his hands and resolutely avoids looking at the bloody end. His hand feels a little wet but otherwise he has no way of determining which strain it's been dipped in.

And Derek’s hands look like they could use some serious help. Or at the very least some Aloe Vera or something.

“Cupboard. Atop the fridge. There’s a container. With different strands of wolfsbane. Just. In. Case.”

Derek’s face is creased with pain so Stiles knows they’re not out of the woods yet. He takes the rod with him, dumping it on the counter and hastily wiping his hands onto his jeans before finding the cupboard as directed.

There _is_ a container. Sealed tightly and Stiles grabs it and a tea towel from the bench and wonders if wolfsbane goes bad over time or if it just dries up like a herb when he drags it all back out into the foyer.

He dumps the towel and the container beside where Derek is lying. Bracing himself a little, Stiles yanks the lid off and glances down to see at least ten different strains carefully separated and placed inside. It all does mostly look like a dried herb at this point.

Derek is fumbling at the pocket of his jeans but his fingers are so swollen he can’t reach inside.

“Lighter. Left pocket.”

Stiles swallows. “Oh god. Okay.”

Then he shoves his hand into Derek’s pants. Derek’s breath hitches sharply but Stiles doesn’t allow a second to analyse that when his hand closes over the lighter in question and he yanks it out.

The ten different types of wolfsbane for a liquefied wolfsbane of unknown origin problem rears its ugly head again. Stiles, resting on his knees, lighter expectantly in hand, pauses and stares at them all unblinkingly.

“Do you know which one- ?”

“You pick,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles suddenly tears his eyes away from the container at the tone of Derek’s voice. “What? You mean you _don’t know_? I’m not going to fucking guess- are you kidding? Do you know the odds of-“

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “Use the one in your hand.”

He stops talking and glances down again. And what do you know there’s now a handful of wolfsbane in his grip. Stiles doesn’t remember moving. Or making a selection. 

“Uhh-“

“Stiles,” Derek says again, managing to sound both patient and impatient all at once. “This is time sensitive.”

“Then why’d you drive a fucking hour to get here?” Stiles snaps back, dropping the dried wolfsbane on top of the tea towel and igniting it.

Luckily only the herb catches and it turns to ash pretty quickly. Stiles gathers the corners of the towel before staggering to Derek’s back and using the barrier of the towel to push the wolfsbane dust into his open wound.

Derek lets out a roar, flailing for a moment while Stiles jerks quickly out of reach. A second later, his tremors subside and Stiles watches the skin beneath Derek’s jacket, the ruined wound of torn flesh, slowly close back up.

It’s weirdly captivating. But mostly unsettling.

Stiles swallows his next breath and lets out a gust of relief instead when Derek rolls into a sitting position. “Oh good you’re not dead. Because I’ll admit I don’t think I would’ve had the staying power to schlep your ass out to the car if you were unconscious.”

Derek clearly doesn’t feel up to replying yet because he ignores Stiles’ admission.

“What about your hands-?”

Derek is already standing up. “Should be fine,” he mutters, rolling his previously injured shoulder experimentally. “Wolfsbane in the blood is worse. The hands will heal in another hour or so.”

Far be it for Stiles to tell him the best way to recover from a wolfsbane overdose. The current state of his skin is not a strike in his favour. “How did you know I would guess right?” he demands. “I’m not magic. Deaton even said so-“

“You’re something,” Derek says which is not at all helpful. “Calling it magical seems too limiting.”

Stiles does not want to flush with pleasure at the way Derek presents that as an obvious fact but he’s still focused on being Derek’s unanticipated surgeon again to be swayed by compliments.

“What were you talking about earlier? What look?”

Derek’s mouth presses together thinly and he goes to glance away.

“Ohohoho do _not_ give me that shit. I just pulled that arrow out of your back, which disgusting. Traumatic. Will never sleep again. So the _least_ you could do is answer my questions.”

Derek sighs and turns back to face him. “You already know. It’s the pity look. I bet you got it all the time when your Mot-“

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, with sudden aperçu. “And you figured- arrow in the back that would somehow set that off?”

“I get that look anytime something goes wrong for me. People who know my history are just hardwired for sympathy.”

Well that’s an interesting take. “And I’m not?” Stiles challenges. 

“You feel sympathetic for people sometimes but it doesn’t overwhelm everything. You even choose to shut it off when you want to.“

Stiles is speechless for a second, feeling like he’s been slightly unpeeled by a layer.

“And I trust you,” Derek adds.

He snorts at that and heads back to the couch to turn the bowl over and start scooping the mess of popcorn into it. “Since when,” he mutters, mostly under his breath.

“Since a long time, jackass,” Derek answers, following him to the couch and inspecting the mess there. 

“What did you do- toss the whole thing?” he asks, sinking gingerly onto a cushion.

“Yeah pretty much. You caught me by surprise.”

“Yeah. So did the cross bow.”

Stiles turns to face Derek with interest. “Did you see who shot you?”

“No,” he says shortly. “But it’s probably connected to our erstwhile friends from the donut place.”

“Say ‘Dunkin’ Donuts’ like a real man,” Stiles replies with a grin, scooping more handfuls of popcorn and dropping it into the bowl. “And I don’t think they were ever our friends.”

“For that brief second before they pulled out their weapons they were.”

Wow what a thought.

“You have such an interesting perspective on life.”

Derek doesn’t make any offer to help with clean-up which Stiles understands because his hands still look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow man’s so safe to say his usual dexterity might not be returning for some time yet.

When Stiles is finished, he takes the bowl and stops to grab the wolfsbane container and the tea towel he left in front of the door and returns it all to the kitchen. He seals up the container with assiduity and puts it back in the cupboard above the fridge before chucking the popcorn into the bin. He ditches the bowl and the tea towel into the recently emptied-of-dirty-dishes sink.

Then he re-joins Derek in the lounge room.

“I know what you were watching by the way,” he says immediately upon Stiles’ return. “When I got here. The screech you let out didn’t cover up the voices.”

“Porn,” Stiles insists earnestly. “I was watching porn.”

“Where they all sing and have a magical snowman as their friend? Right.”

Stiles glares at him. 

“I have a reputation.”

Derek laughs then, the dickmunch. “As what?”

Stiles sighs. Then grabs his phone out of his pocket and takes a photo of Derek’s ridiculous hands. He also happens to get Derek's face in the picture and he looks kind of terrible in it which is somehow hilarious. Derek not being picture perfect for once.

“Hey-“ Derek starts, surprised. “What-?“

“I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell anybody about the movie and I won’t tell anybody about your comically sized hands which you got from repeatedly trying to remove a wolfsbane laced bolt from your back like a complete dumbass. Agreed?”

Derek scowls at him. “Fine. Delete that photo.”

Stiles smiles sweetly in return. 

“Not a chance. This is my leverage.”

Derek makes another face at him, but Stiles isn’t much bothered by it.

“I can’t believe you laid a towel down to protect the interior of your precious car but left a bolt from a crossbow impaled in your back for over an hour.”

This seems to displease Derek because he makes an effort to fold his arms in order to make his annoyance known before his giant hands get too much in the way of things and he’s forced to give up the attempt.

Stiles’ returning smile is a smile of victory.

“So what _mischief_ did _you_ get up to today then?” Derek bites back.

That makes Stiles freeze. There was too much emphasis on the word for it to be anything else but an indication that Derek _knows_. 

Oh fuck.

“Someone told you my name, didn’t they?” he asks, scowling at the indignity he’s about to suffer. “Who? Lydia? Scott? It was my dad, wasn’t it?”

The look Derek gives him is of one who has no idea what Stiles is talking about. But is suddenly and rapidly cottoning on to the situation.

“Oh damn,” he says. “I just did. Fuck.”

“Mischief?” Derek demands. “ _That’s_ your real name?”

Stiles tips his head towards the ceiling and wishes he had a time reset button. That would save him from so many uncomfortable situations after he crashes straight into them. Or causes them more like. 

“I said nothing,” he insists. “There was nothing that I just said. Big fat old nothing.”

Derek is watching him closely.

“Mischief isn’t polish- is it?”

Stiles sighs. He dug this hole now and Derek’s not going to let him climb out of it without any answers. “It was all I could pronounce,” he explains after a beat. “Since my parents saddled me with-“

He trails off and doesn’t finish. Derek merely gives him another look. A sharpened one. “What? Like you’re expecting _me_ to laugh?”

Abruptly, Stiles remembers Derek’s has ridiculous balloon hands right now and he is not the laughing type. Smirking yes. Obnoxious, flirtatious smiling when he feels like dusting off those cobwebs and unleashing it on innocent, unsuspecting people. 

A good ol’ belly laugh?

Nah. Not a chance.

“Mieczyslaw,” he sighs. “My mom- she called me Mischief too.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. Stiles doesn’t know what he anticipated but Derek doesn’t make fun. He doesn’t do much of anything really. “I really can’t see you as anything other than Stiles,” he admits after a moment. “Feels wrong somehow.”

Stiles shrugs, a little flattered by the thought and more than happy to move far away from the conversation of his true polish name. 

“Well yeah, the name just stuck.”

When he makes no further comments nor attempts to tear Stiles to shreds for having the most impossible name in existence, Stiles feels maybe a little more forgiving. Maybe Derek isn’t such a dick after all.

“I’m not watching Frozen with you by the way. Even I have limits.”

Never mind.

Stiles’ eyes lift up toward the ceiling as he beseeches the heavens for patience.

The fact that he's only killed one person this entire time is a god dang _miracle_. 

  
  


The thing is with living alone in a creepy little cabin in the middle of nowhere is that after a while you start to get used to the solitude.

Eventually start to take it for granted. Like Stiles is when he emerges from the shower, towelled off but still naked as the main chorus of Hold the Line by Broods blares from his iPhone.

“Cut clean,” Stiles is practically shouting as he struts out, in the mood to belt out a song as he dances into the bedroom. “BELIEVE ME. LET FREE THE-“

“Are you kidding me?” comes a very Derek Hale sounding voice and Stiles trails off to stare in horror at Derek and Jackson who are standing by the dining room table looking directly into the bedroom and carrying what appears to be his groceries.

And Stiles has whipped himself around unthinkingly and accidentally bared his junk to them both.

Curse Derek’s murder cabin’s open floor plan.

“Stiles,” Jackson shouts, sounding mortally offended as Stiles’ survival instincts kick in.

At the sight of the very two last people on earth he would like to be exposing his junk to. “Knock much?” he squeaks, diving toward the bed where he set out a fresh pair of boxers, hastily grabbing hold and scrambling into them as the music continues to blast on from his phone.  


Stiles retrieves it from the bathroom and hastily presses pause.

“What the fuck are you both doing here?”

Derek has completely turned his face away, his arms still laden down with grocery bags and Stiles figures he doesn’t really need the answer to that question. “Your father ran into us down at Vons and asked if we could bring this out to you.”

“Also, you were singing the words wrong,” Jackson interjects because of course he’s Jackson and always has a spare moment to criticize. “It’s ‘relieve me’ dumbass.”

Stiles is not bothered by this.

“Who are you the lyrics police?”

Jackson, who has barely started displaying his displeasure finally succumbs to his primal urges. “You know at this point, I think if you wanted to kill me now I’d be okay with it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and checks his junk is firmly packed away before leaving the bedroom area. “Now why would I do that and deprive you of the fond memories of my purple dick uncovered. Those last lifetimes you know.”

He squirms into a shirt next, happy to conceal as much of his body as possible despite the jokes. 

“This is worse than that time I practically puked up black blood for hours. Worse. Than. That. Stiles.”

“Noted,” Stiles said quickly, ignoring the natural recoil of embarrassment squirming within him. 

And the fact that Derek hasn’t said anything since his initial announcement.

Stiles was going to agonise over this moment later; the exact way that Derek had turned his face so as not to look at him.

But what’s a little bit of agony to go with his weekly food supplies?

“So what did you guys bring anyway?”

  
  


Stiles googles the lyrics for the song when they both finally leave.

And it turns out Jackson is _right_.

Fuck. The world must be ending after all.

  
  


His father comes to visit two days later, full of apologies for sending Derek and Jackson in his stead and bearing the gift of a giant Costco sized tin of coffee, the brand of which Stiles would happily make human sacrifices to in exchange for his own lifetime supply.

Stiles wonders suspiciously if someone told him about the being caught dancing naked thing. True, if it had been his dad it would have been a thousand times less embarrassing- parents do become quietly accepting of their kid’s tomfoolery at a certain point.

Also Jackson is a huge blabber mouth.

Stiles sets the coffee tin down and sighs. “You know about the naked dancing thing right?”

His father winces, giving Stiles his answer.

“Well- yes. The Whittemore kid might have made a few comments until Derek whacked him upside the head.”

Stiles can’t help but smile at that.

Even after the years they’ve known him, his dad still calls Jackson ‘the Whittemore kid’. Stiles suspects it’s because of that time he put a restraining order against Scott and Stiles who were trying to stop him from killing people (which was very much what Jackson was doing at the time) and in retaliation Jackson also tried to get his dad fired.

Not a great impression to make on the local sheriff.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Stiles says, easily waving away the matter. “If that was really the most embarrassing thing to happen to me then I’ve lived way too sheltered a life.”

His father snorts and starts fetching out two mugs to make them both coffee. “You,” he says, still laughing. “Sheltered. Right.”

“You get it.”

Once he’s finished making them coffee, his father retrieves something else from the bag he left on the counter before nudging it over to Stiles.

“What’s this?” Stiles says immediately, abandoning his mug to drag what very much looks like a Beacon Hills police department case file- because it’s been stamped and dated, whoa in 1962- almost sixty years ago.

1962\. The year Marilyn Monroe died.

His father’s hand is still on the other side of the file, pining it to the counter and preventing Stiles from opening it. “This is the oldest cold case in the precinct,” his father explains. “One that should under no circumstances have left the file room in any way shape or form, Stiles.”

Stiles only grins at him. “Right.”

“It should not be mentioned that the sheriff stole important documents from his own precinct to give them to his teenage son to occupy him during his isolation period.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles agrees, eyes never moving away from the file, keen to get his fingers on it. "Not a teenager but sure."

“If any of this were to come to light, the sheriff would be fired immediately from his job followed by hefty fines and possible jail time- kid, pay attention- is this all sinking in?” 

“Cold case. High stakes. Don’t let anyone know.”

His father still doesn’t remove his hand. “Okay then. I’m gonna give you twenty minutes to go through this file, take whatever information from it that you can and then it’s coming back with me to the station.”

Ugh why did his father have to go and be good at his job? Stiles frantically nods his agreement and starts unlocking his phone in preparation.

“No photos,” the sheriff says firmly. “C’mon kid. Think it through.”

Dammit. Stiles sighs and locks his phone again. “Fine,” he agrees, jumping up and running back to his bedroom where there’s a bunch of stationary supplies in the event that he wanted to do some college readings. “But I’m taking notes.”

“I’ll allow it. As long as all of it is disposed of carefully afterward.”

Stiles lets out an excited hum as he bolts back into the kitchen. “Oh yeah, I’m gonna make a murder board.”

His father finally removes his hand from the edge of the file and Stiles practically dives towards it, flipping it open to start reading.

The sheriff is happy to sit there sipping his coffee and checking his watch occasionally because he was not kidding earlier and is actually timing Stiles- which Stiles knew he would. There’s no other sounds but the scratch of Stiles’ pen across his note pad and the random noises he lets out when he comes across something interesting.

It’s definitely a weird case. A murder. With several key witnesses who uncovered the body and who saw the deceased in public half an hour before his death. Not to mention several statements that don’t seem to mesh that well together. Oooh yes this will be good, Stiles can tell.

In what seems like no time at all, the case file is being snapped shut. Stiles barely got to read it through three times. 

“Alright. Time's up,” his dad says, tugging the closed file away and carefully placing it back into the grocery bag.

Stiles lets out some half-hearted protest, but he knows he’s got enough information to work with now. “Thanks,” he says when he’s walking his father to the door, two metres radius because his father is special and because of past near death experiences.

“Love you, Son,” says his father as he slips through the front door. “Wouldn’t exchange your weird idiosyncrasies for anybody else’s- not even Scott’s.”

“Hey,” he protests, seeing at once the meaningfulness behind the statement.

Stiles has often thought his father admired Scott, as an ideal son over him, because he was better behaved, even if naïve enough to let Stiles drag him into all his schemes without much arm twisting.

The fact that he felt the need to say otherwise tells Stiles that- his father is clearly aware of the friendship funk he and Scott are in at the moment, and he appears to be letting Stiles know plainly and explicitly which side he’s standing on when the line is drawn in the sand.

Huh.

Stiles ducks his head slightly, sure that his face might be a little bit red and/or overcome with feeling. John Stilinski is his role model so hearing things like this not only make him deeply uncomfortable but basically also warms him from the inside out.

No offence to Scott McCall and his unspoiled, structured and moderately happy upbringing, but Stiles wouldn’t trade his father for Melissa any day.

In fact Stiles wouldn’t trade him for anyone.

“Love you, Dad.”

  
  


Ten minutes later, the murder board is a go.

Huh. Murder board in Derek’s murder cabin.

Fitting somehow.

  
  


Stiles comes out of the shower, fully dressed, thankfully, and Derek is standing by the armchair in front of the fire where Stiles was reading Haruki Murakami’s 19Q4 earlier to take a break from the case, and he’s scanning Stiles’ research taped to the opposite wall.

It’s started to get dark outside, but not dark enough that Stiles can’t see how he’s dressed. He’s wearing a fucking sweater. And not just any old sweater.

Stiles loses his foot in the air. Literally, his brain stops computing that it has a foot, half raised or that he is walking forward or that he should probably be putting that back down right now.

That’s not even the worst part. Derek’s not just wearing any run-of-the-mill sweater, it’s some kind of fluffy comfortable looking pullover. Soft looking. Derek. Soft and comfy. What the hell?

Derek is wearing _a fluffy sweater_.

And he’s got that short-day stubble, the perfection of which Stiles does not understand scientifically as he’s never quite seen it replicated anywhere else. Is it a werewolf thing? It can’t be because Scott’s a werewolf and his chin hair makes him look like a baby man. With chin hair. So the werewolf factor is definitely ruled out.

“What is this?” Derek asks absently, unaware of the agony he’s just unleashed on Stiles’ libido.

“Oh God,” Stiles groans almost unconsciously and finally puts his foot down. “I think I just came.”

Derek looks up and blinks at him in confusion, not quite hearing what fell out of Stiles’ mouth. Which is probably a good thing considering how inappropriate it was. He should stop talking now. 

If he has any self-control.

Which- he doesn’t. Obviously.

“What?”

“You’re- uh wearing a sweater,” Stiles says, sounding like he’s panting.

He frowns a little and glances down at himself. “Yeah, Cora bought it for me and it was cold outside,” he says, a little defensively, fingers playing with the sleeve. “Erica already said it doesn’t suit me.”

If Derek, a hot furnace werewolf, is saying it’s cold outside then it must be freezing. Stiles makes a mental note to wear socks to bed tonight.

“What! No!” he says frantically, half shouting and fully aware of the fact that he sounds unhinged. “Erica doesn’t know anything.”

This is the worst situation Stiles has ever been in. And he’s still fucking radioactive and purple.

“What’s wrong with you?” Derek wonders, letting his fingers fall away and seemingly oblivious to his own charm as he gestures at the paperwork. “Why is your heart pounding? Is this confidential or something?”

Stiles gestures non-verbally at Derek and pulls a face. 

“Am I supposed to understand that?”

“It’s not meant to have left the station, yeah. But that’s not the point. This,” he says, making a jerky hand gesture at Derek’s offensive everything. “Is _so_ the point.”

Derek frowns at him again.

“Huh?”

Stiles makes another gesture again but this time more forcefully before collapsing on the rug with a pained groan.

“Aren’t you always the one complaining I don’t talk enough?” Derek mutters, looking down at him. “And isn’t everyone you meet telling you, you talk too much? Are we in the upside down?”

Stiles sits back up immediately. “Oh my God,” he says wondrously. “You watched Stranger Things?”

Derek shrugs and turns back to his wall of research. “I have a Netflix account. You know to go with the TV that I also have. But stop changing the subject, Stiles. What is _this_?”

Derek is really trying to convince Stiles he doesn’t live in a cave isn’t he? But he’s pretty sure he heard Erica and Isaac talking about how he ate a rat once when on the run from hunters and food was scarce. Which is probably not that big a deal considering how many squirrels Scott seems to come across when shifted.

Either way, vivid image.

And Derek is in no way convincing Stiles that he’s civilised. Not when exhibit a) the rattening, and exhibit b) the climbing through windows instead of walking through doors, and c) his tendency for non-verbal gestures, occasional growls and unimpressed expressions instead of words all seem to factor against him. 

Derek once snatched a slice of pizza out of Stiles’ hand too last year at one of their pack meetings. Like when Stiles was seconds away from the first bite. The absolute barbarian. To be fair though most of the werewolves he knows do that as well. You gotta eat pizza fast in their fucked up little wolf family.

“It’s the cold case of Arlo Ramirez from almost sixty years ago but you have Netflix?” Stiles squawks unbelievably, collapsing back onto the mattress as the world shifts underneath him. “This can’t be real. I’m a fucking purple smurf. You have soft sweaters and Netflix.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Arguably the purple smurf thing is the weirdest feature in that group.”

Stiles whistles. 

“Low hanging fruit, dude. So what are you doing here again? I can tell by the lack of arrows sticking out of your body that you haven’t been shot this time, which hey congrats on that one.”

Derek gestures wordlessly over at the dining table where a plastic bag full of containers smelling very much like Indian food is resting and previously escaped his notice.

“You brought dinner?” Stiles demands, already rubbing his fingers together with enthusiasm and moving toward it. 

It’s been way too long since he’s had any takeout.

“We’re gonna watch a movie,” Stiles decides, calling out to him in the living room. “No- better a horror movie. Have you seen Ready or Not?”

“No,” Derek answers back.

Stiles heard about it from Erica and has wanted to watch it for a while. An entire family hunting the woman who just married into said family, all while she’s still wearing the wedding dress- is all the kind of macabre and sinister aesthetic he’s looking for in a story.

And he's pretty sure she doesn't die at the end which is even more awesome. 

Also Stiles hasn’t watched much stuff with Derek, especially movies of a horror variety and he wants to know if jump scares get to him.

As a werewolf with sensitive senses and fast reflexes, Stiles is guessing it will. Oh man he can’t wait to laugh at him.

It’s the simple joys in life really.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, in case you were wondering Derek DID recognise Stiles over the phone just from his laugh alone k bye


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> me: for the love of god wrap the story up already
> 
> the evil kermit version of my brain: keep writing
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the nice, extra long final chapter lol

  
  


Derek walks into his murder cabin like a surgeon preparing to deliver bad news.

Uh oh.

Stiles abandons his game of Overwatch and sets about mentally readying himself for some bullshit. Because of Derek’s arrival and previous life experience.

“About what happened the other day-“ Derek starts, no hello, how are you, the orange ball of fire in the sky is making nice weather today- just looks straight at Stiles with a meaningful air about him as if things can be sufficiently gleaned from this and then stops talking.

Which is not remotely any kind of hint for anything. So no dice.

Stiles stares at him blankly and refuses to make any guesses based on the fact that he’s dealing with Derek and that means no conceivable way of understanding his thoughts based on expression alone.

He vividly remembers a time when Derek’s face darkened considerably during the middle of the pack meeting, giving off a sufficient aura of misbegotten rage. The air simmering around him to the point that Stiles was anticipating claws to be drawn, tables thrown across the room-

And then Derek suggested they order pizza.

So. Yeah. Not the simplest dude to figure out.

Derek is somehow simultaneously the easiest read when he wants to be whilst also being the most inscrutable, frustratingly impenetrable fortress of indecipherable-ness in human form. He’s a walking contra to anything that should make sense basically. But Stiles kind of admires that about him.

“Uh- the what happened with the what now?”

Derek glances over at the bathroom door then back to Stiles again as if he’s just relinquished a vital piece of the puzzle and that is enough for Stiles’ mental voyager to wade through in order to reach the correct destination.

It’s not. But hey he tried. It could be said that he made some semblance of an effort to communicate.

“Huh?”

“You were naked,” Derek says bluntly and Stiles’ everything pretty much bursts into flames at the words.

Because that is not a thing that they were ever meant to acknowledge in real time. Seeing him without clothes on was supposed to just be this unspoken, slightly embarrassing image that might pop unexpectedly into Derek’s thoughts one day mid battle, mid bite of a burger, mid run through the woodlands during a full moon. 

It’s meant to be a sleeper image, lying in wait to jump out at Derek and give him somewhat unsettling thoughts at random, one to have in the back of his mind and follow him for the rest of his days. It’s not something they were ever meant to _talk about_.

“I- yes,” Stiles says, suddenly completely on board with the topic in question now that he’s aware of what’s being discussed. And also instantaneously suspicious about the direction this is going. “That thing that happened. Right. So- ?”

“I want to see it again.”

Stiles is really starting to wonder what kind of hippie nature drugs Derek is snorting during his off time. “I’m sorry you want to see me _naked_?” he demands, colouring and reaching out to clutch at his chest as if that will somehow force his heart to resume its normal pacing. 

It’s both the most unexpected thing Derek could have possibly said and also something that Stiles has been desperately, madly wishing for. Except well, even in his wildest of daydreams he didn’t really think it would happen like this.

Or at all actually. 

And the very last thing he wants to do is declare any unsolicited feelings before finding out exactly what Derek’s angle is here. Hard to do that though when his body is literally betraying him. Why oh why can’t he react normally whenever Derek is in the room?

“No,” Derek retorts, exasperated. “I want to see the vines. All of them.”

Oh. And there it is. _Not_ what he was thinking at all. Derek’s not prepositioning him. He just wants to study him like a lab rat. As if that’s somehow the more feasible answer out of the two. 

The thought doesn’t exactly leave Stiles jumping for joy. But still Derek should be rethinking his choice of words a little. That’s not the first time he’s said things to Stiles that sound extremely suggestive. Suggestive _and_ sexual.

“Even the ones on my ass?”

“Stiles-”

He can’t help but grin at the way Derek’s mouth twists. “Because that’s where some of them are as I’ve mentioned before-“

“I want to see.”

Stiles swallows. The flippant smile quickly slipping off his face. Oh man, Derek’s startling sincerity is something that he’s really got no defence against. Why in the hell did he have to ask for this?

“You said earlier, that I’ve got a thing- about being shirtless.”

Derek looks at him but doesn’t ask for more.

“You weren’t wrong- I do have a thing,” Stiles admits, not avoiding Derek’s eyes. “So seems to me like you’re asking a lot of me without offering anything in return.”

The time where his crush asks him to roll over and he says want me to keep going when I hit the ditch? has long since passed. It could be suggested that it withered up and died at some stage, along with Stiles’ crushing and debilitating need to constantly please the objects of his affections by striving to meet any and all of their demands.

Stiles doesn’t want to be that guy anymore. Even if he desperately wants to satisfy Derek, has spent many idle hours wrapped up in thoughts of exactly what he would do to please him if given the opportunity- Stiles’ dignity still won’t allow it.

Boundaries do exist for a reason after all.

Derek takes on the words with a considering expression but doesn’t immediately shoot him down. “What do you want?”

Oh how the turntables. 

Stiles could get on board with this no problem. _Definitely_ an unforeseen shift. Contrary to the now frantic pounding of Stiles’ heart, he manages an offhanded shrug. “You’re asking me to be vulnerable- so quid pro quo, dude.”

Derek opens his mouth as if the request hasn’t fully sunken in before he hesitates and raises an eyebrow.

“You want me to take my clothes off too?”

Stiles merely snorts at that. Waving the suggestion away with a flick of his wrist. “Please. You do that every five minutes it means nothing to you. I’m talking about something that makes you feel _vulnerable_. Then maybe I’ll let you see these vines more closely.”

Admittedly it’s the most bizarre bargain he’s ever made. But the alternative is disclosing that he’s stupid gone on Derek, and his devotion already has him wanting to tear his clothes off just because Derek randomly requested it. Stiles has literally been toying with the edge of his t-shirt for the past few minutes almost as soon as Derek asked to see him naked.

Except _boundaries_. Stay strong, Stiles.

It’s actually a little terrifying how much he’s willing to do for Derek. There’s no limit to it. And if Derek figured him out- 

Being standoffish and sarcastic is the only way he can handle being around Derek without spontaneously combusting these days. And now- this. Stiles doesn’t think he can handle any of it.

He wonders at the outcome too. 

Either Derek will buckle and refuse to expose himself in a way that makes him weak and Stiles won’t have to do anything or even _wilder_ , Derek will actually show him a side of himself Stiles has never witnessed before, something extremely personal. 

And that’s the time for making memories.

Stiles tries to guess what Derek’s answer will be. But really it could go either way based off what Derek’s face is broadcasting. Stiles is just trying his best not to seem too eager.

“You want to get under my skin,” Derek decides, frowning a little at the thought.

“What like you’re not trying to get under mine?”

The silence that follows is piercing. Stiles feels satisfied that he successfully made his point. Covered all of the bases. At least now Derek can-

“Okay,” agrees Derek with a slow nod of his head. “Quid pro quo.”

Oh shit. Derek’s _agreeing_ to this.

Fuck.

“So- so what are you-? Are you gonna- ?“

“Tell me why you have a thing first,” Derek interrupts his ineffectual word stumbling. “About being shirtless.”

Really? How did asking to see him naked lead to this instead? Stiles is pretty sure that his answer won’t placate anyone. But Derek brings out the honesty in him anyway. 

“Are you serious? Because I’m surrounded by ripped werewolves 24/7 whose muscles have gone pro and decided to open up their own gym independently? Because when I take my shirt off it’s not a GQ commercial?”

“So it makes you feel insecure?”

God why couldn’t Derek just leave it at flustering him with the being naked request? Why did he have to take an interest in this too? “I- yes, okay? Yes. That might possibly be a thing that happens.”

Derek nods once.

“Alright.”

“Alright what?” Stiles wonders, genuinely curious to see what direction Derek will take this.

“I’ll show you what makes me feel vulnerable.”

Then to Stiles’ complete surprise Derek turns on his heel and heads over to the dining table, zeroing in on the paper his father left there a couple days ago which he’d brought for Stiles to read if he got bored or felt like doing the puzzles.

Unwillingly intrigued by Derek’s behaviour, Stiles trails on after him, frowning when Derek picks the newspaper up and starts flipping through the pages, clearly looking for something.

“What are you-?”

“You got a pen?” Derek asks, blunt as ever, as he keeps flipping.

Stiles continues to frown at him before heading over to the murder board and picking up a discarded pen. When he brings it back to Derek, setting it on the table beside him, Derek seems to have finally settled on a page in the newspaper.

And-

Stiles doesn’t get it.

It’s the crossword page. Which, what? How in the hell has that got anything to do with Derek being vulnerable? “I’m sorry you want to do a crossword right now? What’s this got to do with-?”

“Give me a minute.”

Stiles sighs, giving up on Derek entirely and heading into the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water. By the time he returns, chugging a generous mouthful, Derek is there looking flushed and on edge when he pushes the paper into Stiles’ chest.

“Here,” he snaps, and Stiles almost doesn’t catch it.

Mostly since he’s trying to avoid touching Derek. He fumbles the newspaper, setting his glass on the table and peering down at it closely. In the couple minutes he left him to it Derek has started to fill some answers in.

He’s written down six. Which is a pretty modest start at best.

Stiles is extremely puzzled by all of this.

“Okay so?”

“Those are the only ones I can answer,” Derek mutters, watching him carefully. “I have a thing too- about not being seen as intelligent. About being valued based only on how I look and what my body can do. I was a lot like Scott in high school- handsome but harmless. That’s how they saw me. People liked me but never really took me seriously.”

Derek smiles wryly. “Peter liked to rub that in my face a lot.”

Of course Peter would have, the slimy snake. A guy like him with an ego the size of a small state and an arrogant sense of entitlement to his own cleverness- he would have relished the chance to run intellectual circles around Derek at any given chance.

Stiles opens his mouth instinctively before he sees the exposed flash in Derek’s eyes for what it truly is, the way he’s carefully cataloguing Stiles’ reaction to the information that’s been offered.

Gently, _gently_.

“This,” Stiles starts slowly, gesturing at the crossword puzzle. “Is not at all a measure of intelligence. It’s meant to be a fun way to flex your general knowledge of pop culture and history, celebrities and random facts that people never seem to remember anyway. It doesn’t really matter whether you can finish it or not.”

Derek’s jaw only clenches. A sure sign that Stiles stepped wrong and probably needs to redesign his approach. “It matters to me," he says. "Being out of the loop in the pack or not included in any of the tactical plans- all of that gets to me. I know I’m not an idiot but things like this-“ he gestures at the newspaper in Stiles’ hands. “Make me feel like one. And being around you-“

Stiles reactively takes a sharp breath. “And Lydia when you’re in the middle of one of your debates or philosophical pow wows only leave me feeling like I’ve got more to prove. So yeah, that’s my thing.”

Wow. 

Of all the things for a guy to have, Stiles would never have guessed this of Derek. But now that it’s been brought forward to his attention, applying this knowledge to all of their previous interactions only seems to bring Derek’s frustration into higher relief.

Because it’s true he does like to be the one called upon when things get rough or they need to consult for his opinion in things. He enjoys giving out vital information on the supernatural backed up by the years and years of hands on experience. 

Derek _wants_ to matter to the pack. And not only in the ways that his physicality can assist their ranks.

Stiles wonders why he never truly saw it before. Though it’s always been there in the way he and Derek banter whenever they’re in dire straits, spiralling towards close calls and or/ close quarters. Stiles wants to pummel Peter Hale into the ground for even sensing Derek’s self-doubt and jabbing at it until it bloomed into something bigger.

Because Derek _is_ clever. He and Stiles couldn’t carry on like they do, bickering and debating and taunting each other at any given moment if the playing field was uneven.

And that right there is the reason why Stiles is completely blindsided by Derek’s admission. Because in all the years they’ve known each other: strangers, enemies or friends, Stiles has literally never seen Derek as anything other than his equal.

It’s a lot to process at once. And much more mind-blowing than it has any real sense to be. But that's the thing with insecurity, he figures, it's not often rooted in reality. Stiles might even go as far as to say Derek can be pretty fucking witty at times if he wasn’t so certain that the compliment would bring up his guard quicker than a truth-laced insult could.

And- Stiles wants to get under Derek’s guard no matter how much he plays at indifference.

“Here,” he manages after a moment, laying the newspaper back down on the table and taking a seat. “We could uh- try and finish it together.”

The face Derek directs towards him is not at all in the ball park of onboard with that suggestion. “I’m not asking you to humour me-”

“I never said I was.”

Derek merely glares at him.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter if you can finish it or not.”

Jesus. Derek is making it really difficult for the gesture Stiles is trying to put forward here. And it’s not like saying he wants them to do an activity together is any kind of option. Sorry Sokka.

They’ve watched way too much Avatar together for Derek to miss that reference.

“Yeah. But you said it matters to you so-“

“Stiles-“

Are they somehow arguing about Stiles trying to be nice to him? Is that the level of insanity they’ve descended to now? Well fine, Stiles has nothing better to do anyway.

Might as well.

“You know even the way they measure intelligence nowadays is vague and arbitrary,” he continues. “It’s influenced by what we value as a society. What we consider to be highbrow and academic. So yeah math and science paves the way for distinguishing individuals as supposably gifted but it alienates other fundamental areas of the human experience that others might thrive in.”

Derek’s still staring at him, but he’s listening, interest evidently caught by the argument Stiles is now making.

“Such as?”

“Emotional intelligence, creative intelligence et cetera, et cetera. Or you know that psychologist Gardener dude’s nine types of intelligence: naturalist, musical, logical, interpersonal, existential, linguistic and- I can’t remember the rest. The point I’m making is that there’s literally so many different ways that people navigate the world with the skill sets they bring into it and the way they might think so if you’re looking at yourself and comparing what’s lacking- well, guaranteed you’re gonna find it.”

Derek’s mouth quirks. “Like how you might refuse to reveal your body in any capacity because you’re comparing it to supernatural creatures that have a naturally designed edge and bodily kinesthetics that you don’t?”

Stiles gaps at him. Astonished.

“Did you just turn my own argument against me by utilising the same source material?”

He wants to be more offended by this, but mostly he’s just turned on by how easily Derek spun it all around in order to point out the prominent flaw in Stiles’ logic. Derek merely shrugs, like he didn’t just intellectually KO Stiles into next week.

“I’ve read some papers on psychology. A few books here and there that were interesting. Gardener’s ideas were noteworthy for his time.”

Oh ho ho ho and whoever doubted Derek had hidden depths should honestly be kicking themselves right about now. Stiles feels especially vindicated by the conversation somehow. Mostly because Derek’s talking so freely. About himself.

“Okay so you obviously see the point I’m making and you’ve also identified the hypocrisy in it too so I feel we’re at a sufficient stage to move on. So crossword, yes?”

Somehow Stiles is still expecting to be shut down, but Derek takes the seat next to him and settles in.

“I’m _really_ not good at these,” Derek volunteers, which in itself is enough to make Stiles flutter with excitement since he’s sitting down to do it anyway.

That he trust Stiles with his insecurities. “And I’m not so great at taking my shirt off,” Stiles counters, picking up the pen. “But evidently we’re climbing out of our comfort zones for a little while and seeing how that goes.”

Derek glances at him once Stiles basically confirms that he will be removing his clothes at some later stage so Derek can properly inspect him. The weight of the look elicits a shiver as if he were already naked.

“Okay,” Derek says easily, as if they didn’t just have this monumental moment of sharing resulting in Stiles what would dub as a strengthening of the bonds of emotional intimacy.

But hey it’s Derek. He just be like that sometimes.

  
  


Ten minutes later, and Derek has talked him out of his clothes.

But that doesn’t mean Stiles won’t be doing it in the most Stiles-like fashion possible. Because this will be a charged moment anyway may as well be himself. Once he finishes unbuttoning the flannel, he slips it off his shoulders and tosses it behind him with a dramtic flourish.

“Grandma, it’s me, Anastasia.”

The expression on Derek’s face is wholly out of the range of tolerant.

“I can’t believe you just made that movie reference right now.”

Stiles grins and doesn’t manage to hide it before he’s turning away and unbuttoning his jeans, attempting to ignore the sudden warmth in the room, the jittery, overwhelming feeling that he’s doing this. That he’s about to do this. Dear god.

“For the record I’m leaving my underwear on.”

Unexpectedly Derek clears his throat, making a sound resembling that and a mixture of a cough like he started choking on Stiles’ sentence somehow. He seems to recover quickly though.

“I never suggested otherwise.”

“Well good,” Stiles retorts, tugging his jeans past his knees and watching them pool onto the floor at his feet. “Cause that’ll cost ya.”

It was probably a bad idea to do this in the bedroom. His dick is only the slightest shift away from becoming too excited. And it’s not helping matters that Derek is just standing there _looking_ at him.

Stiles should have gotten undressed in the bathroom and come out to show Derek that way. This- stripping off clothes before him- just feels much more personal than it should.

“I think I’m better off not asking why you’re treating this like a business transaction.”

The answer to that is easy. Because if Stiles starts trying to take this seriously the situation is going to end up with his boner proudly announcing itself to the room and several mortifying questions on Derek’s end once he realises the depth of Stiles’ interest in him.

Better to keep things distant. Clinical. 

“Did we not just exchange our insecurities earlier like some back alley drug deal?”

Derek actually has the nerve to smirk at him. At a time like this! It’s like he _wants_ Stiles’ dick to get hard here. 

“You know I really want to know what goes through your head most of the time. I think it’d be an interesting place to be.”

Stiles feels the blush this time and he knows, he _knows_ that he didn’t get away with it. Because Derek tilts his head and frowns next.

“Your face is changing colour.”

“Is it?” he laughs half-heartedly, turning to yank his t-shirt off just as a means to spin away from Derek and get his shit back under control.

And then Derek makes it ten times worse, stepping close to an underwear only clad Stiles, who is clutching his Van Gogh, Van Goghing, Van Gone t-shirt in his fists like it’s his last form of protection. “I didn’t think _you_ got embarrassed.”

“Oh ha ha,” Stiles says, resisting the urge to press the shirt back against his skin in order to cover his chest. 

He takes a step to his left so he can look through the open doorway of the bathroom where there’s a direct line of sight to the mirror hanging there in order to see his face. 

Yep. Pink blush on purple skin confirmed! Also super obvious, thanks Obama.

“Dammit.”

Derek follows him, still grinning, still not understanding the concept of personal space or the danger of explodo-touch, half naked humans standing in his vicinity.

“It’s _really_ noticeable,” he points out, because he’s an utter dick.

“Then maybe don’t ask to see me naked and compliment me while I do it?” Stiles shoots back, annoyed at himself for reacting, and choosing instead to toss his shirt on the bed in a fit of emotion, folding his arms across his chest next.

The smile on Derek’s face decides to take a leave of absence as his eyes drop downward. And then he’s really looking now. Stiles sighs and wills himself not to blush again.

“I’m realising suddenly that I never set a time limit on your weird body inspection.”

Derek’s eyes are still roaming over him intently so Stiles is pretty sure that he’s not even listening.

“Seems like your problem.”

“ _Well_ then,” Stiles retorts, putting as much emphasis on the words as to put a suburban housewife to shame.

He stomps over to the bed to scoop up his shirt, but Derek is there first, snatching it off the bedspread. “Wait,” he mutters quietly. “Just- just give me a minute.”

And Stiles, _dammit_ , blushes again.

Derek seems to realise he’s waded into dangerous territory because he stops poking fun and circles around to Stiles’ exposed back instead. Oddly this time it’s not as offensive as when Deaton did it, but that’s more to do with the fact that his brain is communicating sexual and heightened emotional impulses at him for what is no doubt a weird, but not exactly carnal moment and his wires are getting crossed somewhere.

“They’re beautiful,” Derek says suddenly, unpredictably. “I hadn’t noticed. The colour really draws away from the fact.”

“What fact?” Stiles wonders, intrigued beyond belief and wanting to hear what else about him Derek deems beautiful.

Like maybe if he had a list ready, or a PowerPoint presentation.

Stiles would be into that.

“That the vines are like art. They flow and curl over your skin. And you’re just- ensnared in the middle of it all. Bound.”

 _Bound_.

A slight shudder ripples through him. Stiles doesn’t like the sound of that even if it is true. Because he is bound to the wolfsbane flowing in his veins now. Cursed.

“I don’t get it,” Derek volunteers a second later, passing Stiles his shirt back. Carefully, but not as carefully as Stiles would’ve liked.

He scrambles back into it and tries not to focus on how his feelings are bubbling very close to the surface right now. That he’s seconds away from blurting out something uninvited. Something possibly heartfelt. Emotionally charged even.

“What?”

“You’ve got a great body. You’re attractive. What’s there to hide?"

Stiles’ mouth opens in astonishment but before he can scramble his thoughts any lower than defcon three status Derek has already fucking swanned himself out of the room.

Quoi de la fuck? As the french might say.

  
  


Stiles barely gets half an hour of reeling over Derek’s comment and quietly overanalysing the shit out of it whenever Derek is distracted from the crossword before Derek looks up from his phone and says, “the pack is coming over.”

This is news to him.

“Since when?”

“Since you went around destroying trees and Erica told everyone you were losing it.”

Stiles groans.

“Is this an intervention? Because if so I will figure out a way to incinerate myself in order to get out of it. Do not push me.”

Derek frowns at him to convey his meaning. “It’s not an intervention. It’s a movie night excuse for the pack to check up on you.”

It's somewhat inconvenient is what it is. Stiles had a whole evening of doing nothing and possibly jerking off later planned. So he scoffs, then says under his breath. “Right, like half of them even care.”

Derek shoots him a sharp look, an unforgiving one wrapped up in admonishment. “The ones who show up do.” 

And then Stiles has no way to defend against _that_.

  
  


Once the dark sets in, there’s headlights pulling up the dirt drive and what do you know Derek was right- there are ones who do show up.

Erica slides out of Lydia’s car with Allison and Kira. Boyd and Cora appear together, parking behind Derek’s Camaro and slinking out of the shadows. Then Isaac climbs out of Jackson’s Porsche.

Because somehow _Jackson_ has even shown up.

So basically most of the pack, minus Scott, because everything seems minus Scott these days. When Stiles steps out onto the porch well out of the way to let everyone through, Kira almost grimaces as she passes him.

“Sorry, Scott said he was busy.”

Doing what? Is what he might have asked months ago but now he doesn’t bother. He doesn’t really care about hearing what person or event Scott prioritised over this when literally everyone else made the time to show up.

Even fucking Kira, Scott’s _girlfriend_ is here. And her grimace seems to transmit the entire situation in a very clear and distinct manner to those in the surrounding area.

Stiles honestly can’t believe him sometimes.

  
  


“We’re playing Catan,” Lydia decides, because she is obviously the leader of the group and wants to tactically squash her friends into the ground.

Stiles opens his mouth to disagree, since to his knowledge Derek does not have the boardgame stowed away in any hidden recesses of his murder cabin but Jackson emerges from behind Isaac, brandishing Catan like it’s a swamp covered bog monster- that is holding it as far away from his body as possible.

He has the put upon expression of one who knows he will be carrying Lydia’s things into the near future. But oh well. Stiles can do boardgames.

“We’ll have to split into teams,” Kira suggests, following Lydia into the living room and helping her push the couch back to make room for everyone to sit down in front of the fire place. Stiles is admittedly wary to approach, except Kira looks over, catches his eye and pats one of the couch cushions.

Clearly they’ve thought of everything.

The pack moves in to get settled and Isaac helps Jackson unpack the boardgame and set the pieces up.

Stiles meekly picks his way through the group and sits down cross-legged on the couch. He’s taken to wearing socks all the time now lest a stray foot catch someone unawares so at the very least he’s somewhat comfortable. He can still play. Someone will just roll the dice for him and move all his pieces when needed.

Derek seems to nominate himself for the task because he takes the empty couch next to Stiles without comment and sets about taking the cards Isaac hands out and dumping them unceremoniously in Stiles’ lap.

“Gee thanks,” he mutters.

Kira and Erica make a team, Jackson and Isaac because Lydia refuses to be dragged down by Jackson’s poor strategy. Then Boyd and Derek because they have the best poker faces of the entire group and know they have the advantage- they’re the team to look out for. Along with Allison and Cora who just seem to be gearing up to get competitive, leaving Stiles, naturally alone.

Because Lydia wants to defeat everyone solo.

At the very least things are about to get interesting. What’s that popular review for the game again? That Catan can’t be beaten on destroying families and friendships?

They’re about to find out.

  
  


Derek starts straight off the bat by winning the first round with Boyd.

Stiles was right to fear their poker faces.

Lydia seems somewhat disgruntled by this, having being completely blind sighted by their strategy but she is ready to avenge herself in the next game. And Stiles can’t seem to ignore how much Derek is silently aglow at the win. It’s extremely endearing, he cannot seem to get a handle on his emotions.

It makes a pretty pitiable strategy for Catan, getting distracted by Derek’s general charms.

But oh well.

Lydia snatches her victory back in the next round with assassin like precision. Which everyone was somehow expecting. Nobody seems to ask Stiles about his tree induced mental breakdown the other day with Erica but he finds that that is a result he greatly prefers anyway. Especially if the alternative is an open share circle with the entire pack. 

At the very least it’s good to kill a few hours with his friends.

There’s lots of shouting and laughing involved it turns out.

Stiles somehow didn’t expect their everyday ruthlessness to transfer over to Catan. It’s probably safer that they’ve never played it together before. He’s not sure he’s even capable of breaking up an all-out pack brawl if that’s what it comes to.

“What’s the time?” Lydia wonders when they’ve stopped for a beat and moved into the kitchen for the necessary snack break, reaching out and picking Stiles’ phone up from its position where he left it face down on the table.

“Wait-“ Stiles starts, reaching out with the thought of stopping her but it’s too late she’s already turned it over and seen his lock screen.

Fuck. 

Her eyebrow curves up dramatically as the rest of the pack turns to focus on Lydia, attention caught by Stiles’ reaction. Their interest has clearly been piqued. 

Then he feels very much like the deer before it meets the headlights of a car driving sixty miles per hour.

“What is it?” Isaac asks, curious to know what’s going on.

Lydia pointedly tilts the phone screen toward her chest so nobody else can see it. “Nothing,” she says evenly. “It’s later than I thought. We’re going to have to leave soon to grab dinner.”

Stiles’ eyes are zeroed in on the phone so he sees the way she casually rests her thumb on the off switch and holds it down, before idly sliding a finger across the screen to power it off. 

It’s very subtly done. The only reason he notices is because his eyes are glued to the area in question. It takes everything in him not to sigh in relief afterward, and not a minute too soon because Jackson reaches up and snatches it out of her hand a second later.

He presses the unlock button but the screen is blank which is more than enough time for Lydia to steal it back. “Battery must have died,” she says offhandedly before tossing it at Stiles.

Stiles fumbles the catch and drops it on the floorboards first with a loud clatter before he can slip it back into his pocket, heart beating fast at the very close call that was. God he was being an idiot. Thinking no one but himself would see that.

At the very worst he could have passed it all off as a joke. Even if the human lie detector’s might have caught him out. A few weeks in the cabin alone and Stiles has become complacent.

It’s why he doesn’t notice the danger of Lydia Martin until she’s sneaking up behind him much later on in the evening, the pack having retreated once spotting her intentions. She wanted him alone when they were getting ready to head back to Beacon Hills and thus the rest of the pack melts away into the night.

Not even Derek tried to challenge her before climbing into the Camaro, Erica and Isaac clambering in after him to depart.

Lydia’s ability to achieve her goals is uncanny. Almost unnatural even. They stand together on the deck and watch the rest of the pack’s cars reverse and peel off down the drive. Stiles doesn’t get the chance to ask her first, because, as always, Lydia already knows what she wants to say.

That doesn’t mean he’s expecting her to announce, “Oh god, I was wrong.”

“How’s that possible?” he wonders, cheekily, slyly, still not seeing the danger.

“It’s not a crush is it, Stiles?” she demands. “It’s not a crush at all.”

Don’t be suspicious. Don’t be suspicious.

Stiles’ mouth presses together thinly but he doesn’t answer. Which is just as telling in itself.

“I saw your lock screen background,” she continues. “It’s a very unflattering photo of Derek with unnaturally swollen hands. You’re in love with him.”

Stiles fights the jolt that goes through his body at the words, like an involuntary energy kick ramping him up a notch, even as he tries his best not to show it. 

His shoulder twitches visibly. Noticeably. He does not succeed.

“Motherfuck,” Lydia says, but there’s no reproach in her tone only amazement.

It seems maybe she was a little convinced by Stiles’ efforts at producing an air of nonchalance around Derek. Or maybe she just doesn’t view Stiles as capable of love or something. Which is not out of the realm of possibility- he can be a cold bastard when he wants to.

Stiles takes a deep breath to brace himself. “Lydia-“

“Oh my god,” she says, mouth widening with some strange kind of delight. “He can’t stop coming out here to check on your every couple of days. He drove out here specifically to you when he was injured and here you are having him as your iPhone background because _you’re in love with him_.”

Stiles buries his face into his hands. This was not the kind of intervention he was expecting today. But maybe there’s still a chance to abort mission.

“It was- a bad joke alright? I just thought it was funny,” he lies, maybe a little pathetically. “Can you stop? This isn’t The Notebook, okay? Not everything ends with some dude passionately building a house for love of his life so they can grow old in it together.”

Lydia has a knowing look.

“No, _you_ just end up living in his hidden romance cabin instead.”

Stiles flushes. From his neck all the way up to his cheeks, he can literally feel the heat building. “First of all this is clearly a murder cabin- not a romance cabin c’mon it’s Derek here. And second of all- I’m really interested to know why you keep, you know, prodding at this?”

Lydia suddenly reaches out and squeezes the sleeve of his shirt, gripping his forearm beneath it in a show of camaraderie.

“I just want you to know that I’ve noticed how you’re feeling lately and I approve of your amorous entanglements, that’s all.”

Stiles doesn’t know why this is of some surprise to him but it is. Lydia isn’t particularly the romantic type. Practical very much so.

“You do?”

“I like how you are when you’re together. I like how you like how you are when you’re together. You both do.”

Somehow Stiles is amazed he managed to follow that at all. “Well thanks then I guess. Good to know.”

“But you’re not going to do anything about it,” she guesses, releasing his shirt and pulling away with a sigh as if Stiles not getting laid is her own personal vendetta.

Stiles laughs and wiggles his purple fingers at her in case she needs the reminder. “What is there to do exactly?”

Only Lydia makes a disapproving face at him. Like it’s his fault for not trying to be more inventive in his attempts to have sex with other people- even when radioactive.

“A lot if you’re determined.”

Stiles is determined to stop thinking about this anymore. 

Does that count?

  
  


As if to directly prove Lydia’s point, like a bat signal sent out into the universe, Derek drives over the next morning to visit him.

Stiles thinks he’s still being subtle about everything- he switched the picture to his home screen and changed his password so nobody can unlock his phone now- except he acts way too chipper at Derek’s arrival and mistakenly makes the kind gesture of cooking him breakfast.

The absolute moron.

Derek gives him a little bit of an uncertain look when Stiles pushes the plate over towards him without fanfare. And refuses to touch the food, still eyeing it warily. That's when Stiles loses his earlier chipperness. 

“Oh my god it’s not poisoned.”

Derek still regards the eggs and bacon with suspicion as if they have personally offended his family. “Can’t be too sure.”

“Oh fuck you,” he grumbles then starts tearing into his own plate.

Fuck Derek. Stiles can’t believe he’s in love with the guy.

An hour later, Derek leaves Stiles to his murder board and picks up a book from his read pile, The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt before dropping onto the couch. Stiles ignores him in favour of getting lost in the research journey- the route of the investigation. The puzzle is always the most satisfying part.

When he looks up from the board again, he’s starving, the sun is close to setting and he’s seemingly passed several hours this way, tying on red string and making new connections.

And Derek hasn’t interrupted him once.

“Hey so I was thinking,” Stiles says without turning around. “I know I’m laying low right now but what exactly are your thoughts on uber eats delivering out this far- I mean you’re paying obviously so-“

Stiles trails off once he realises there’s no protest coming from Derek’s end. Then he turns around and sees that the comfortable Derek shaped sprawl on the couch is in fact not the relaxed position of one reading all afternoon and now contemplating ordering takeout.

It is the sprawl of one currently resting with the book closed atop his chest. Because Derek is asleep.

Stiles draws up short. And stares some more.

Because he’s never seen Derek asleep before. Forcibly knocked unconscious, yes, too many times to count, but actually sleeping? Being calm enough to close his eyes and catch a few Z’s? Nope not once. And why would he be napping _here_ of all places?

This is worse than that time Stiles dreamed about it. Because that was Stiles’ own stupidly tender and idealistic subconscious idea of what it would be like with a sleeping Derek in his bed. A sleeping Derek, actually in reality, totally zonked out on the couch is a whole other kettle of fish.

Oh no. Stiles really didn’t need the in real life confirmation of what Derek’s face looks like right now.

The answer is soft. Open. _Beautiful_.

Stiles is not strong enough for this. But that doesn’t mean he’s decent either. Quickly and quietly he withdraws his phone from his back pocket and snaps a photo. When he checks he got a good one to be saved for later, inspecting it closely, Stiles gets all breathless again just from looking at it.

“Nope,” he says, spinning about on his heel and deciding he needs to go for a walk outside immediately.

Fresh air is important and so is getting as far away from sleeping Derek Hale as humanly possible while sequestered to a murder cabin in the middle of nowhere. 

You know what he did notice some vine like weeds that had started growing up behind the back of the cabin out by the water tank the other day when he was out walking. That’s obviously something that needs to be addressed immediately. So Stiles stomps over to the tank for some impromptu gardening.

At the very least destroying a parasite might help with his sexual frustration. Stiles can’t believe how badly he wants to suck a dick that isn’t his own.

Turning purple and living out his solitude in the woods has really made him more selfless.

  
  


Derek comes outside when Stiles is still furiously attacking the weeds at the back of the cabin. 

He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he was sleeping all this time, though Stiles catches him stretching and yawning, nor does he make any comment on what Stiles is doing and what impulsive thought brought about the urge for doing so at this time in the afternoon.

Probably a good thing.

“I’ve got to go,” he says instead. “I’m training with Allison later.”

Stiles glances up from where a vine has crumbled beneath his fist. “What?” he says quickly, straightening and instantly worried. “What do you guys talk about?”

He knew it was a bad idea to tell her about the secret crush situation. Unfortunately Stiles does not in any way pull off the casualness he intended of that inquiry. 

But Derek only gives him an funny look.

“Training.”

“Right,” he says, laughing uneasily and trying to convince himself that Allison is a person who can be trusted with secrets.

It’ll be fine.

Seriously. He just needs to chill. Then Derek stretches again, all of his muscles going taut before relaxing.

And jerk off. Stiles _definitely_ needs to jerk off.

Derek barely disappears down the drive before Stiles hears the sound of a bike and Scott peels into existence a second later. The smell of exhaust accompanying the unwelcomeness of his arrival. 

Wow Scott literally coming in like a bad smell. What a surprise.

An impossible surprise.

Stiles glances disbelievingly at the person riding Scott’s bike and waits for them to remove their helmet. The person who does so resembles Scott but that’s not exactly convincing. Because it’s not like the real Scott has made any effort to see him lately. Stiles is more willing to be convinced of an unexpected shape shifter attack than the arrival of his supposed best friend.

Statistically it's more probable. 

“That was Derek wasn’t it?” Scott asks casually, like they’ve got nothing else more pressing to discuss like say how much of an incredibly shitty friend he’s being. “I didn’t know you guys were so close now.”

Stiles is so angry at the nonchalance of Scott’s unexpected visit- making it seem like the easiest thing in the world and thus suggesting he’s felt no need to show up since arriving once this entire time- that his fingers are trembling.

“Yeah, well. He actually cares enough to come in and check up on me every couple of days.”

Gauntlet thrown. 

It is hurled out like the barb it is because after so long, Stiles physically is incapable of preventing himself. And for once, Scott isn’t so oblivious that it passes breezily over his head undetected.

His expression only shifts though, turns puzzled and wounded. Like he has the self-awareness to sense that Stiles is upsetting his feelings but not the other way around. How anyone could be so heedless is lost on him, but Stiles actually feels capable of murder in this moment.

“So what is Derek like your new best friend now?” Scott asks mulishly a second later and oh no, he’s not just capable, Stiles is really gonna do it.

He’s gonna kill him.

Is. Scott. Fucking. For. Real?

Stiles glares at him, putting every hint of emotion he’s been feeling for the past few months into the expression.

And Scott actually recoils.

“Are you fucking _kidding me_? This is the first time you’ve been to see me in over a month, because- and I can’t believe I even need to point this out- I’m going through a massively shit time right now where I could accidentally kill any of the people I love. But you’re trying to tell me now somehow that you’re the one all butthurt I’m not paying enough attention to _you_ right now? Are you _serious_?”

Scott reels back further as if Stiles had actually hit him. “That’s not what I-“

“You literally bailed on me the day after all this happened, like when I dunno I could probably have done with a friend around offering support and comfort or something? And then you sent _Derek_ over. Who in fact had no idea you planned for him to- hang out- as opposed to baby sit your radioactive time bomb of a friend.”

“That was a miscommunication,” Scott insists. “I didn’t-“

“Look Scott, I’m not even mad anymore this is just kinda what you do.”

Scott’s jaw clicks and Stiles can see him starting to sink into his moral and offended stance. 

Here we go. 

“What I do.” He repeats.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, impatient and annoyed that it isn’t apparent, that this is just another blip in the long list of fucking things that he has to lay out for Scott McCall. “You know the whole Scott show thing where you’ve got some gallant task or Romeo moment going on and everything else is just in the background, like say your best friend.”

“What are you even saying?”

Stiles sighs. 

“I’m saying I love you man, but you’re not exactly a good friend lately. And if I’m being honest you haven’t been for a while.”

“What?!” Scott cries, looking absolutely dumbfounded by the concept.

What a guy.

“How many times have I called you asking you to come over and hang out while I’m quarantined in this hermit cabin?” Stiles continues, patience wearing steadily thinner by the minute. “And how many times have you come to visit?”

Scott rubs awkwardly at his uneven jawline. “Okay. I admit I’ve been busy lately but-“

Stiles laughs and it comes out mean and wrong sounding. “How many times have I called you when it’s been literally life or death and you haven’t even picked up?”

“I- I-“

“Just face it Scott. You get wrapped up in the Scott and girlfriend experience and then there isn’t room for anything else. You don’t _make room_ for anything else. And I can’t rely on you.”

“Yes, you can!”

“No,” Stiles says firmly, stepping back. “I can’t. And it’s fair to say that I’ve been with you through thick and thin- for a lot things. When some people might have walked away- you becoming a wolf of the night the prime example- I’ve always been there for you and that’s something you’ve slowly started taking for granted. So I’m done with it.”

Scott’s expression turns wary. “Done with what?”

“With letting you get away with it. Even now it’s like you’re still expecting me to trail after you wherever you go but I’m not your sidekick, Scott. And you bailing on me every time I need you, isn’t something I’m okay with.”

“But-“

“No offence dude,” Stiles interrupts, and his fingers are actually tingling with all his pent up resentment now. “But I think you should leave. Actually no, I’d kinda prefer if you did.”

Scott makes that damn face at him again, the helpless, thoughtless puppy dog look.

“Stiles-“

“Get the fuck out Scott!” he shouts, turning and planting his fist into the tree next to him.

Except it doesn’t wither away. It _explodes_.

Scott yelps and scrambles back to his bike.

But eventually he goes.

  
  


Stiles angrily retreats to the field afterward and runs laps for at least an hour, until his legs don't feel like his legs anymore because they’re shaking so bad. He collapses to the grass in a heap, creating a small semicircle of ash where his skin makes contact with living matter.

He’s making crop circles now. Stiles isn’t even in the right frame of mind to be impressed by this.

Once he has the energy to move again, he stumbles back to the cabin, showers, eats and re-watches one of his favourite episodes of Brooklyn Nine Nine in a feeble attempt to boost his mood.

But he still doesn’t feel any better.

  
  


The next day Stiles’ nose perks up to the smell of cooking bacon in the kitchen and he rolls over with a groan.

“If you’re here to kill me, I think I’m entitled to some of that bacon first,” he calls out, tumbling out of the sheets and padding slowly into the kitchen.

Derek turns and manages to pull off a judgemental stare despite the fact that he has a tea towel over his shoulder like that Queer Eye chef and he’s holding a spatula in hand. Not really the best tools for intimidation or high horses. “Why do you keep saying I’m going to kill you?”

Stiles doesn’t want to bring up the fact that Derek has more than likely killed more people than him again, since he isn’t in much of a headspace for that back and forth this morning. He’s still feeling a little raw after what happened with Scott yesterday afternoon.

For all he knows maybe Derek really is here to finish him off. If looking unfairly attractive and openly interested in Stiles is his method for doing so. 

He might be a little inclined to admit it’s working.

“Huh,” Stiles says because that’s all he can muster, then takes a seat at the kitchen island, rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

Derek better not be here to make a weird can-you-get-naked request again. Stiles is not interested in the general nonsense and shenanigans that comes with it this morning. Any good humour he might previously have possessed has climbed out the bathroom window when he wasn’t looking and run off on a cruise ship to Guatemala.

So it’s _that_ kind of morning it seems.

Really Derek should have known better than to show up here unannounced.

“So what’s up, man?” he wonders, scratching idly at his belly and firmly deciding that he will not unload his list of complaints about Scott on him. Nor will he make any case that Scott should be sent to best friend jail immediately for his crimes. “You got some kind of an update for me?”

Derek just gives him a blank look before sliding a plate full of eggs, bacon and toast towards him, setting down cutlery to the left of Stiles’ elbow.

Stiles, used to Derek being close, or at least used to the fact that Derek isn’t afraid of dying, picks up the knife and fork and makes eye contact with Derek again. He’s not a man to mince words, if someone was dead or dying or under attack he would have led with that already. Satisfied he’s here for another reason, Stiles digs in with gusto.

Derek even roasted some tomatoes and mushrooms for him. For Stiles that’s like Masterchef level breakfast. 

So he eats and watches Derek putter around the kitchen, finishing cleaning off the pan he cooked with before he’s coming around to Stiles' side of the island, coffee in hand, within reach but not stupid about it, as he leans on the edge of the counter.

He doesn’t say anything as he looks out at the trees through the open window where the sunlight is pouring through the glass like it does every morning. Stiles tries to ignore the fact that it literally bathes Derek in a golden aura of light while he stares off thoughtfully and drinks his coffee like he belongs there. 

Of course he belongs there, it’s his murder cabin, but it’s more deceptive under the brightness of the morning. 

It’s almost enough to convince that he belongs there with Stiles.

Derek realises Stiles has been staring for some time and draws his gaze away, the moment of quiet thought broken. 

“I wasn’t staring,” Stiles says stupidly before going back to his meal, shovelling a large bite on his fork then into his mouth to prevent further conversation.

Derek just sips his coffee and doesn’t bother pointing out that that’s exactly what Stiles was doing.

They’ve reached the point in their friendship where exposing the embarrassing things each other does has lost its power. Also, Derek’s cottoned on to Stiles' underdeveloped sense of shame and realised he cannot get to him that way.

Just as Stiles has grasped that endlessly prodding at Derek will never be enough to make him explode into any kind of rage tantrum that he greatly desires to witness. Derek’s got his shit too locked down for that to happen. So they manage now to resist the obvious taunts. 

And a great peace settled over the lands. 

Or at the very least over Beacon Hills and their extremely vexed and exasperated friend group.

Stiles roles his eyes anyway and finishes practically licking his plate clean. Only after that does he decide that he’s up to actual conversation. 

“Thanks for the grub,” he says, watching Derek drain the last of his coffee. “And not to seem ungrateful, but you didn’t mention why you were here? Or wait- Scott probably told you about our epic fight which ended with me blasting a tree huh.”

Derek takes his empty mug to the sink and rinses it out, leaving it there upturned to dry off before he finally moves to face him again. 

“Scott didn’t tell me,” he says. “But Kira did. She wanted me to check on you.”

Stiles is feeling sorry enough for himself and for Scott that Kira’s interference in this moment doesn’t actually needle at him. He’s about to ask Derek something about that but the look on his face stops him short.

“Why are you here again?” Stiles repeats, frowning, and knowing suddenly that Derek’s reasons when they see fit to reveal themselves might actually be completely detached from the Scott/Stiles melodrama altogether.

What’s going on as the Non Blondes might say.

Because Stiles is suddenly certain that something is happening. Only he has no idea what. But Derek _clearly_ does. And there’s something in his expression that ignites a sense of anticipation in the room. Not to mention the almost rueful smile that lifts the corners of his mouth. 

Derek doesn’t smile much but when he does it’s like getting hit by a mind control ray every damn time because Stiles is always frozen and so blindly fervent in his devotion to Derek that he’d do anything for him. 

Even if 90% of that time is spent denying it vehemently.

It’s a powerful smile.

“You know why I keep coming here,” says Derek. “Why I suggested my family’s cabin in the first place.”

Stiles glances at him. Then away. Struggling to remember if that ever came up in any exchange between them.

He knows why Derek suggested the murder cabin- because Stiles nearly killed his dad and he needed to get away before making it official. But Stiles is very extra certain that Derek never really explained why he keeps impulsively showing up every few days to check in with him. 

And he definitely never fully elaborated on why he’d preferred to drive out here to Stiles for help in the crossbow-bolt-out-of-his-shoulder removal effort than to literally anywhere else. Stiles just chalked this all up to the usual enigma like qualities of Derek Hale.

“Is that something that I know?” he wonders lightly, brow only creasing as he pushes away his empty plate. “Cause I definitely missed the memo on that one.”

Derek grits his teeth. “Look this isn’t easy for me-“

And okay, Stiles is utterly bewildered by his reaction now. What the hell is Derek even talking about? And why is he looking at him like he thinks Stiles is messing with him?

Stiles actually thought- well he thought they’d become closer since his touch turned nuclear, since Derek brought him to this cabin, since they’d been spending so much time together. Clearly he’s gotten the wrong impression somewhere.

Because here it is again. The truth about Stiles in a nutshell. Of course it’s not _easy_ for Derek to spend time with him.

Why would he have thought otherwise?

At once Stiles’ insecurity rears up. The one that knows he’s annoying and obnoxious more than one hundred per cent of the time with most people and with all the bravado and confidence and nonchalance he expends on showing the zero shits he gives about it, is actually really and truly fucking bothered by it sometimes. 

And possibly loathes himself for it. But hey what’s a little self-loathing to even out the pot of cerebral stew brewing in his head these days?

“What is?” he asks, already bracing himself for the answer.

This one is gonna hurt a little, Stiles can already tell.

Derek’s expression tightens. “I know you’re not this obtuse, Stiles.”

Which what? Stiles has barely woken up to find Derek making him breakfast so forgive him for being a little slow on the uptake. Whatever the hell it may be. 

He feels brittle all of a sudden. Uncertain, that he can take whatever Derek’s about to dish out even if he’s had more than enough of others giving their two cents about his personality once they think they’ve figured him out. 

That he’s Too Much most of the time.

That if he’d just be quieter-

Make himself smaller-

Stiles forces his eyes to Derek’s face, hardness stealing into his expression now. In preparation of the worst. He can take it, he decides. He _will_ take it. Stiles has been hearing it all his life. 

So what’s another one? Just another gem of garbage wisdom he refuses to let himself be buried under. No way in hell. Stiles will add it to the lovely pile, fashion a crown out of the trash and parade around with it on his fucking head for all he cares.

“I have no fucking idea what you-“

“I think about you,” Derek says unexpectedly, the words rushing out of him like a barrier has ruptured somewhere. “I think about you a lot.”

Oh it’s this again.

Well it _could_ have been worse. At least now he knows Derek’s lumped him into the cannot-function-as-an-adult-nor-fend-for-himself category and will henceforth be relentlessly worried about into the near future.

Like his dad hasn’t already commandeered 90 per cent of that position already.

Still it’s a little disappointing. Even with all the crap that’s been happening lately, he hadn’t wanted Derek to think of him as this helpless. 

Stiles sighs again. “Look you don’t have to worry- I haven’t killed anyone in like months. Well except that thorn bush outside but to be fair it was blocking the window and all the light coming in every morning so that one was a little intentional-“

“I’m not worried about you,” Derek says, snorting like the idea is ridiculous.

Which okay back to the drawing board then? Is it really so hard for Derek just to come out and say what he’s indirectly already saying? Stiles could probably go back to bed, take a quick power nap and come back out to find Derek still hasn’t gotten to the point yet. His mouth quirks involuntarily at the thought.

“I- fuck. I mean of course I’m worried. But that’s not what this is.”

Well then. Stiles gives Derek another blank look and takes the seat next to him, settling in for A Long Conversation. Because this is obviously gonna take a while. 

“So what the hell’s going on?”

And Derek actually laughs then, turning his head slightly as if he can’t face Stiles head on. This is not normal Derek-like behaviour. “You know it’s funny you can’t seem to understand what I’m getting at here. Considering the way I catch you looking at me sometimes.”

Stiles’ entire body tenses into one rigid line at the sudden candour and he almost doesn’t hear, “And the way I look at you.”

Because he’s struggling to comprehend what he thinks might be happening is actually happening. Because Derek couldn’t possibly be saying- what he’s saying.

Oh. Shit. What the fuck.

“I’m not used to this,” Derek admits after a breath. “What we were first taught, it’s tradition for werewolf children to go out and see the world beyond when they’re old enough, find out what people are like outside the family and if they meet someone-“

Stiles inhales sharply but Derek keeps going. “We’re meant to bring them back to be absorbed into the pack as the next generation. But you-“ Derek looks up and catches his eye. “You were already part of my pack.”

And Stiles suddenly knows where Derek’s going with this. Oh god, He knows _exactly_ where he’s going with this. Derek is trying to tell him- trying to tell him that-

“Scott’s pack,” Stiles counters, stupidly, and wants to hit himself when the little smile around Derek’s mouth wavers.

Oh God. Stiles. Shut _up_.

“Right. Scott. It was easier when I just thought about you only sometimes, when we hadn’t spent real time together. But now, with you- everything just- you snuck up on me. And the way I see you it’s not how I think about the rest of the pack. If I’m being honest it hasn’t been for some time.”

Oh man, oh man this is happening. How is this actually happening?

“Stiles I- I really-“

He can feel it, the way Derek twists his mouth almost like a nervous habit as his hand scraps across his chin and away. As directly as if Derek somehow touched him instead. Stiles scrambles out of his seat and backward, heart pounding, stretching out the distance between them because for a horrifying, wonderful second he’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted.

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Stiles mutters in a low tone, unable to meet Derek’s eyes.

The chair creaks as Derek stands up and turns to face him openly. Because everything about him is direct- even love declarations. 

“Why would I joke about this?”

“Why the fuck would you- why now? I’m _poison_ , I can’t even fucking touch you, you goddamn asshole- I-“

No. No, no, _no_ this can’t be happening. Reality isn’t so cruel.

“Stiles-“

“I didn’t want it like this!” he shouts, voice getting louder as he kicks out at the pile of his future reading books stacked up neatly along the kitchen wall. “Of all the ways I’d thought- the ways I’d hoped we’d-“

He suddenly can’t bear to look at Derek’s face. Instead he kicks again at the next stack of books and watches with a single vindictive pleasure as Great Expectations by Charles Dickens goes hurtling across the wooden floor. 

Well whatever the book is overhyped anyway.

“What are you gonna do? Roll me up in bubble wrap so we can dry hump?”

Derek grimaces at the words, mouth snaking down as his temper flares. Because Stiles can always bring out Derek’s fight. Even now. “Not everything is about sex.”

“I know that!” he shouts, inflamed. “But I can’t even hold your fucking hand, you absolute _turd_. When this is all I’ve wanted for- for- for fucking _years_ , Derek.”

This pulls him up short before that damn smile is quirking at his mouth again.

“You’ve had feelings about me for that long?”

Stiles is too mad to find that appealing, even though he’s suddenly breathless. “Of course I did, you bastard. How could you not smell that?”

Derek’s smile turns wry, almost playful. “Physical attraction and romantic attraction are two separate things.”

“You are such an fuckhammer!” 

Derek is still smiling but his trademark eyebrow is climbing. “I admit this wasn’t how I thought you’d react-“

“Why would you tell me this _now_?” Stiles demands. “Did you consider all of the things that would follow this conversation? That maybe I would want to kiss you, grab your hand, get my mouth on your dick, god fucking- even touch your damn face and I can do none of those things. _None_.”

Derek’s smile falls again, turns serious and Stiles can see the fight in him rising instead. Coming closer to the surface. “Isn’t it enough to know that you want to do those things?” he shoots back, voice getting louder. “It’s enough for me. I can- I can wait.”

“You can wait!” Stiles shouts, louder still, wanting to scream or laugh or cry just eject some of the hysteria bubbling up in his chest into the fucking ether of the universe. “Oh well yippee for _you_. But what happens when this doesn’t go away? And I’m stuck like this forever?”

Understanding clears Derek’s face and it aggravates Stiles how quickly he recognises exactly what’s going on in his head.

“It’s going to fade,” he says, low and certain. “Stiles. You have nothing to worry about. And even if it didn’t it wouldn’t change anything.”

Says the guy who isn’t purple and off destroying things. Sure easy for him to say.

“Well it would change things for me,” Stiles says bitterly. “I don’t- don’t want to be like this forever.”

“You won’t,” Derek says and he’s closer now, enough that Stiles can feel the heat of his body and _fuck_ this is too dangerous. 

Stiles wants too badly. And knows he can’t trust himself not to do something reckless right now.

“And if you did I’ll roll you up in bubble wrap myself.”

Dammit. Stiles can’t help it then. He laughs. Only a little. Man, fucking Derek Hale- the true reason for the invention of the middle finger. 

“So we can dry hump?” he clarifies, wanting to see Derek squirm. To discover what kind of reaction it might bring.

But Derek only smirks then. That flirty one he’d first unleashed on the unsuspecting public years and years ago except Stiles has watched him close enough, learned his mannerisms by now to see the authenticity in it.

“So we can dry hump,” he agrees, grinning a little.

Then in a not so rare act of foolishness, Derek reaches out and places his hand on Stiles’ chest, right where his heart is already pounding happily away underneath his ribs.

“Derek,” he warns, mouth lifting of its own accord.

“Stiles,” Derek replies, smiling back.

His hand makes an aborted movement upward as if he was planning to cover Derek’s hand before his brain kicks in. It stops before it passes his hip and Stiles lets out a sigh of displeasure, of minor defeat, before dropping his hand back to the side again.

Derek’s smile doesn’t waver at all.

“So you want to hold my hand, huh?”

Stiles is not the kind of man who blushes at wanting to display his affections but it’s a close thing. “Shut up,” he mutters. “I can’t believe you just blasted me with all your heartfelt emotion right now. Out of nowhere.”

Derek smiles and Stiles is aghast to realise he’s looking at him fondly. How long has Derek been doing that without his notice?

“I’ve never had anyone be angry when I’ve told them I’m interested in them before so that’s a first.”

Stiles’ temper has cooled off enough for him to maybe feel a little disconcerted about that. “Well you basically unleashed a sneak attack on me- with feelings-“ Stiles protests. “And I maybe sort of like you a lot- I’m only human.”

Derek’s brow furrows. “Maybe sort of?”

“Do not make me go in-depth about the all-encompassing feelings I have for you because you. Will. Be. Alarmed.”

This warning however, is not enough to scare him off.

“I’m pretty sure I won’t be.”

“Fine,” Stiles huffs, fumbling for his iPhone, unlocking it and shoving it in Derek’s dumb face. “You are literally already my home screen background. I had you as my lock screen first before Lydia found it and I realised what a stupid move that was.”

Derek peers at the screen and looks even more confused. “This- is a really bad photo, Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles replies with a contented sigh. “And it literally makes me smile every time I see it. _That’s_ how far gone I am on you.”

“Oh,” says Derek faintly, and he can’t help but notice how soft Derek’s face looks upon hearing this so it emboldens Stiles to go on. “I’ve been so standoffish about you coming over because it’s literally what I’ve wanted for ages- to spend more time with you- and having it happen because of Scott or just because I overdosed on wolfsbane and turned into a bioweapon really didn’t sit right.”

“So why didn’t you just ask me?”

Stiles shrugs. “I never thought you’d be interested. I didn’t think it was possible.”

Derek has the gall to look surprised.

“How could you not? When I always paid more attention to you than anyone else in the pack?”

The rush of pleasure rising in him at having that confirmed is indescribable. 

“I thought that was more to do with my obnoxious qualities,” he admits. “Like how you can’t ignore a fly buzzing in the room on a hot day.”

“No,” Derek says shortly. “I’ve dealt with my share of obnoxious people and it wasn’t like that. I knew how to shut you down- I just chose not to. Nobody was forcing me to engage. I did that on my own.”

Stiles’ grin feels blinding. Or at the very least like it’s stretching his facial muscles beyond recognition. “Probably didn’t help that I savoured the shit out of having any of your attention. Still do.”

Derek looks like he wants to touch him again. Stiles takes a precautionary step away.

“I used to actually think about it a lot when Scott was first bitten- how unlucky it was that Peter bit Scott and not you. You would have made an incredible wolf. And things might have gone a whole lot differently.”

Stiles really isn’t used to compliments from Derek. It’s like being socked in the jaw with his feelings.

“But now I’m glad you’re still human. I don’t want you to lose that. Because you also- bring out the humanity in me.”

Stiles cannot get a handle on this.

“God I’m like gyaah,” he exclaims, hands gesturing outwards in mimicry of an explosion. “I’m in a glass case of emotion, dude. I feel like I should be taking a five mile run around the cabin or at the very least firing lightning into the sky.”

Derek blinks at him.

“Was it ever established that you can do that?”

“No,” Stiles sighs forlornly. “But it’d be pretty fucking awesome wouldn’t it? Instead of the sad jerking off I’m gonna do in the shower later when you leave.”

“That’s probably something you could have kept to yourself.”

Stiles can’t help but laugh. “But Derek, my love bunny. I want to share all things with you.”

It’s funny how quickly Stiles can make him grimace when he puts his mind to it.

“Please stop.”

“Sorry,” he replies, already cackling. “I wanted to see what your face would do at pet names and ooh boy it did _not_ disappoint. Seriously don’t ever change, Derek.”

He feels stupid. Giddy. But the cloud of poison touch is still hanging over the moment, reminding him of what he can’t have. Man what Stiles would give to be able to _touch_. Particularly now with the knowledge that he won’t be rejected. That Derek has made it clear he’s open to reciprocating.

 _God_.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d immediately start messing with me,” Derek says, almost resigned to the fact.

“It’s my second option since climbing you like a tree isn’t possible at the moment.”

Derek’s eyes flash. “Seems like a bad attempt at seduction for a guy with no follow through.”

Stiles gaps at him.

“I can’t believe you just said that. To my face. What about all those times over the years where you’ve pushed me up against hard surfaces? When we’ve literally been inches apart shouting at each other and the sexual tension could be seen from like space? Where’s _your_ follow through? Huh Derek?”

And Derek, the absolute life ruiner, shrugs and says. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Is there a return address for unwanted wolfsbane furnace powers? Stiles would like to exchange them for the ability to handle Derek’s werewolf goods ASAP.

No he will not be paying for postage at this time, thank you.

  
  


Considering the high romantic stakes of the morning they don’t end up doing much for the rest of the day. 

Except spend time together.

They wander about the cabin and outside, talking and laughing and occasionally getting on each other’s nerves in a way that shouldn’t be as rewarding as it is. Derek cooks lunch, then they both fuck around with the murder board until Stiles decides he wants to lie on the bed with Derek so he suggests watching something on his laptop as an excuse.

They decide on 9-1-1 because Stiles likes cop procedurals and Derek likes fast paced drama with lots of action. So it’s a perfect combination of their interests. They’re sprawled out on the mattress, Stiles’ laptop between their legs and Stiles is propped up against his pillow while Derek rests his head on his left bicep curled under him.

“You know I wanted to be a firefighter,” Derek admits suddenly as they’re watching Athena arrest an entire plane full of people just so she can get them the hell outta there. “When I was a kid. I thought being a werewolf- it’d give me an edge so I could help people.”

That’s- that’s actually pretty noble and self-sacrificing actually. Stiles wonders why he only lumped Scott into that category all his own. But these days Stiles has come a long way from assuming Derek was a serial killer.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, then realises exactly why and wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

But Derek only shrugs.

“Things change. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. Can’t have a firefighter down for the count every time they have to use the siren.”

Ahh. Stiles hadn’t thought of that.

“Fair point.”

“Hmm,” Derek agrees nonchalantly and then his hand is coming out to rest on top of Stiles’ jean clad thigh out of nowhere. “Okay?”

Stiles startles a little at the touch, fear and instinct protesting even as his muscles tighten and unclench and heat pools victoriously in his gut. He knows it’s risky, reckless even, but Stiles is so touch starved he doesn’t think he has the strength to tell him no.

Derek is responsible for his own safety. He knows what he’s doing. And Stiles. Stiles wants this. So badly. He’ll take anything Derek’s willing to give.

“Yeah- uh yeah,” he agrees, swallowing heavily. “More than okay.”

He can feel the heat from Derek’s palm seeping through the fabric and Stiles has to give himself a moment to wonder if he’s about to get hard from this. Just from Derek’s hand on his fully clothed thigh.

Even if it’s seemingly innocent- Derek’s hand is closer to Stiles’ knee than his crotch- and it’s a touch made to ground him, to show him Derek is there, is present for this. 

But yes, Stiles thinks there’s a very high possibility that he’s going to pop a boner soon.

And Derek’s going to be able to smell it.

Stiles shouldn’t find that as hot as he does. It shouldn’t be making him more horny somehow. That’s not how it should work. 

And yet.

They watch a couple more episodes, talking every now and again, commenting on the scenes they think are realistic and the others which are physically impossible and Derek’s hand stays on Stiles’ leg the entire time. Another episode in and then Derek’s thumb is drawing smooth circles into Stiles’ thigh. By then his half chub has stretched into fully erect territory.

And he’s very much certain that Derek is aware of the change.

“Hey,” Derek says in a mild way, smoothly making Stiles lose his composure completely. “Can I try something?”

His voice echoes loudly in the silence of the room, heating Stiles up from the way it washes over him. And Stiles doesn’t need the confirmation of dark heat in his eyes to know Derek means business. 

Orgasm business.

“Yeah, yes.”

Derek sits up, hand still glued to Stiles’ thigh but with a new sense of determination. “Put your hands under the pillow.”

Stiles bites his lip, extremely turned on right now, though albeit a little wary. But he does as Derek says. A second later and Derek’s right hand is coming down and cupping Stiles’ crotch over his jeans. Oh _fuck_. Stiles hisses and jerks up under it, seeing the wisdom of stuffing his hands underneath his pillow first for what it is. 

Well out of reach of danger.

“Is this-?”

“Yes,” Stiles groans, toes curling at the pressure. “Don’t stop.”

“Can you feel me?” Derek wonders softly, eyes focused on Stiles’ face as he suddenly grinds the heel of his palm down.

“Yessss,” he groans, face starting to flush at the sound. His chest feels hot. There’s no way he’s taking off any layers though. “I can feel you.”

“Good,” Derek says, gripping harder. “Good. Now move.”

Stiles curses, bracing his socked feet against the bed and pushing his hips up. Derek is like an immovable force, cupping his crotch, holding him down. And the friction it creates. Against the jeans, his underwear, his cock, is damn near amazing.

“That’s it,” Derek agrees, catching sight of the expression on Stiles’ face. “Feels good?”

Stiles pants out an uneven grunt of pleasure because he didn’t expect Derek would be this chatty. Reassuring with each word while being a blisteringly hot presence near Stiles’ ear. He was in no way prepared for any of this.

Stiles didn’t think he had much of a praise kink but well, right now Derek can get it.

“Keep going then.”

And Stiles does.

  
  


Holy shit. He can feel like _everything_. 

__

Derek looms over his body, hand a steady pressure against his dick, as he watches with an intent kind of focus. Stiles can’t think beyond how good it feels, how good Derek feels, and how he can’t wait to try for more.

__

The orgasm actually sneaks up on him. 

__

He wasn’t exactly fighting his way towards it, languidly immersed in the moment with Derek. 

With _Derek_. Fuck. 

Stiles is moaning and shuddering as he comes, muscles tensing from the movement against Derek’s hand when Derek abruptly presses down, more firmly than before, enough that Stiles can feel the entirety of Derek’s hand against the outline of his cock.

__

His body trembles and falls over the edge, dick spurting messily in his underwear as Derek works him through it, touch gentling as Stiles gasps and pants, struggling to contain himself, body still sinking back down from the high. 

__

His thighs have gone wobbly from the workout, body sweating more than usual in all the layers. Suddenly Derek drops down with a groan, burying his face into Stiles’ crotch and evidently inhaling the scent of come. He mouths idly at the denim for a moment before pulling away with real regret in his eyes and Stiles’ dick is somehow still twitching.

__

“I want you in my mouth too,” Derek says softly after a moment. “Don’t forget that.”

__

Stiles is pretty sure that he’s never going to forget anything about this moment but he nods along anyway. 

Speechless. Orgasm heavy and comfortable.

__

“I won’t.”

__

God, Stiles _never_ wants Derek to leave.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Except. His phone buzzes when Stiles emerges from the bathroom after cleaning himself up of the evidence of their previous activities, warning of his father’s impending arrival with the weekly grocery run.

__

“I should go?” Derek says after Stiles warns his dad will be there soon but he phrases it like a question, like he’s waiting for Stiles’ opinion on the matter.

__

Even after everything they’ve done this afternoon, Stiles still flushes.

__

“Are- are we telling people?” he asks. “Or- or-“

__

Derek gets up off the bed, approaching Stiles and takes hold of his hips above his clothes before he can tell him no. The man _really_ likes to play with danger. “We’re doing whatever we want to do,” Derek insists, rubbing at Stiles’ skin through the fabric in a soothing caress.

__

Stiles hasn’t thought of them as a ‘we’ yet. The concept is entirely agreeable and takes up all of his allocated brain power for rest of the conversation.

__

“I’m gonna go,” Derek decides after a moment of Stiles standing there stupidly. “You tell your dad or not tell your dad- whatever you want. I’ll talk to you later.”

__

“Okay,” Stiles says already leaning towards Derek before his brain kicks in with the sharp reminder that he _can’t_ kiss him.

__

Oh. Right. Murder touch. Damn.

__

“Were you going to try and kiss me?” Derek realises, smirking as if a near brush with death is amusing to him. “Killing me after I made you come seems a little harsh.”

__

Stiles thinks he might actually choke on air there for a hot second. “I can’t believe I hitched my wagon to yours,” he mutters, succeeding in pulling away entirely. “You can go sad jerk off in your shower alone.”

__

“Alright,” Derek retorts, breezily, in strangely good spirits for someone who- to Stiles' knowledge- didn’t have his own orgasm as he heads out towards the door.

__

Which- hold on a second. Hold on a _second_.

__

“Wait- I didn’t get to touch your dick. Come back!” Stiles calls, astonished at himself that in all the excitement of Derek touching him that he didn’t consider maybe touching Derek back.

__

Derek merely grins at him over his shoulder.

__

“Thanks. But I don’t have a death wish, Stiles.”

__

Then he’s slipping out the front door and closing it behind him before Stiles can get the last word in.

__

Which is pretty fucking rude, but maybe he does have a point about the whole death wish vs Stiles touching his dick thing. If Stiles tried to do to Derek what Derek just did to him, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t accidentally kill Derek in a fit of excitement, or a blunder of uncoordinated hands.

__

So well.

__

“Fuck you, Derek,” Stiles mutters, scraping a hand through his hair, flushed from his earlier orgasm, but still wanting the last word.

__

The Camaro starts up a second later so Stiles is assuming his commentary was heard anyway.

__

__

  
  


__

__

After the grocery delivery man has arrived (aka his father), mid-afternoon since the sheriff took an early morning shift that day, Stiles is in the middle of unpacking bags when his dad unleashes his attack from across the kitchen counter.

__

“So you and Derek, huh?”

__

Stiles freezes in the midst of putting milk away into the fridge. “Whaaat?”

__

Holy shit that is some Cop Glance. He hadn’t expected his father to figure it out so fast. It’s barely been a thing for a couple hours! 

And then, when his father gives nothing but his signature unimpressed look. “How did you know?”

__

Stiles figured they’d be fine keeping it under wraps for a few days since there’s no chance of discarded condom wrappers being found or either of them being caught in flagrante delicto. Because unfortunately Stiles would have to kill Derek in order to do that. 

He wonders briefly if the air in Derek’s murder cabin smells sort of like sex to a human nose.

__

His father neither confirms nor denies this theory, rolling his eyes before he keeps unpacking. Man Stiles really needs to stop eating so many 2 minute noodles.

__

“Relax, you’re my kid,” he says. “I know you.”

__

Since he doesn’t continue on to say ‘and you will never see this man again’ or ‘I’m locking you away in a dungeon now for the foreseeable future’, Stiles takes that to mean he’s cool with it.

__

Though he is a little annoyed by how easily he figured it all out. Considering this barely became a thing only _this morning_ and he hasn’t told anyone yet. Stiles likes to keep a little mystery to himself sometimes. Particularly when it comes to romance.

__

“Plus you guys were doing the dance.”

__

Stiles sets a bag of Doritos onto the counter with a raised eyebrow. “What dance?” he asks, bemused.

__

His father shakes his head, almost ruefully. “The mutual attraction dance.”

__

“I’m sorry- the fucking _what_?”

__

“Mutual attraction dance,” repeats his father patiently. “When two people are attracted to one another, and therefore very aware of the other person in a room, and nothing has been done about it so the tension just keeps rising and rising with no outlet until it’s completely out of control.”

__

Stiles gapes at him, skin flushing red at the implication.

__

“Gross. You can’t say these things. You’re my dad!”

__

His father merely rolls his eyes. Again. “I’ve had sex, kid. How do you think you were made?”

__

“Oh no, no, no,” Stiles says, backing away as the sheriff laughs. “I can’t hear this. I don’t _want_ to hear this. I’ve suffered enough. I’ve-“

__

“Your ice cream is melting,” his father points out and Stiles slinks back to the counter, giving him a dirty look.

__

A couple minutes later when all the food is unpacked, his father smiles at him in a way that he hasn’t seen in a while. The one where he’s satisfied with Stiles’ behaviour, where maybe he thinks Stiles is gonna turn out alright.

__

“I’m happy for you. I don’t think I said that, but I am. You’ll be good for each other.”

__

Stiles ducks his head because he can’t keep blushing every time his father mentions his and Derek’s budding relationship. He’ll never live it down.

__

The pack will never _let_ him live it down.

__

And at the very least Stiles needs to preserve some of his dignity.

__

“Thanks Dad.”

__

__

  
  


__

__

When his father finally leaves, Stiles lays out in the sun on the deck for a little bit, idly letting the hours pass, until his phone buzzes with a text from Derek announcing he’s going to stop by later before the pack full moon run that night.

__

Stiles grins at the screen in anticipation but has no idea how he’s meant to play cool about this whole thing. He’s pretty sure the window of opportunity for that has long since passed.

__

Derek apparently brings it out of him.

__

When he does arrive later, Stiles suggests laying on the bed again because he really likes being in bed with Derek and at this point will literally use any excuse in his arsenal to bring it about. It helps that Derek is amenable to his suggestion.

__

He’s sitting next to Derek on the mattress mid-rant about how unfortunate it is to have a father than can read him like a very simplistic picture book, comfortably engaged in the woes of this when Derek falls off the bed out of nowhere with a loud thump.

__

“What the-“ Stiles says, scrambling to look over the edge where Derek is suddenly sprawled.

__

He’s about to laugh at the very inelegant movement before he realises that Derek’s eyes are closed.

__

Also he’s pretty sure he’s unconscious. 

__

Fuck.

__

Stiles has seen a few people unconscious before, memorably that one time when they were younger and Scott had a particularly bad asthma attack at P.F Chang’s after a heavy thunderstorm which tore up trees and dumped them in Beacon Hills proper.

__

Somehow in this moment, unconscious werewolf seems more unnatural.

__

“Derek!” he says, scooting forward, hands outstretched before he remembers- oh yeah he still can’t fucking touch anyone.

__

“Hey, hey,” he calls, voice getting louder as he nudges Derek in the side with his socked foot.

__

Derek stirs Stiles thinks, or maybe that’s just his body moving with Stiles’ foot. He gives up on trying to revive him that way and streaks into the kitchen, hip banging painfully on the corner of the island in haste.

__

He yanks a cup out of the cupboard, doors slamming as he forgets the right one it’s housed in. Then he’s jerking it under the faucet, filling it up about halfway so it's less likely to spill the whole thing on the return and then rushes back to Derek’s side.

__

Derek, whose feet are tangled up against the edge of the bed, his shirt ridden up in the thoughtless display of the blissfully unconscious. Stiles takes a breath, settles himself at the sight of Derek’s heartbeat pulsing against his exposed throat and then upends the contents of the cup onto Derek’s face.

__

He comes up swinging. Because he’s Derek. Duh. 

__

Thankfully Stiles had already retreated out of reach, sensing the immediate danger beforehand. He backs away further, wondering why a werewolf, who has all the advantages of never being sick, fighting off any natural human discomforts with the ease and practice of the supernatural, would suddenly faint dead away without any warning. 

__

The common denominator is clearly Stiles- who Derek has been spending an inordinate amount of time with lately. More than the rest of the pack. Stiles who is still overflowing with some mutated strain of wolfsbane. Even if Derek never touched- there’s no guarantee it wouldn’t have some effect on him.

__

Stiles is not a fan of poisoning the guy he’s seriously into. Does this mean that they have to stop being close to one another? Is Stiles not even allowed in the same fucking room as the guy he’s in love with anymore? The universe won't even let him have that?

__

Mad regret for ever attempting to be the hero in the parking lot of Dunkin’ Donuts. He should have known that would blow up in his face.

__

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, hesitant and worried and maybe a little afraid. “What the hell happened?”

__

Derek’s mouth twists like he took a bite out of a lemon before glancing over at Stiles and edging back further. So he _was_ the reason Derek passed out. 

Can confirm.

__

“It was me,” Stiles decides, dejection echoing horribly in his voice. “Right? I’m the reason you-“

__

Derek rolls his shoulders and clambers quickly to his feet. “No. It was me. I-“

__

He breaks off and looks away, and Stiles thinks he might know the structure of Derek’s body language here but he’s not exactly certain. Then Derek moves over to the window in Stiles’ bedroom and very pointedly pushes it open, letting the breeze in.

__

“And?” Stiles prompts, watching Derek come back to him again.

__

Even after passing out he keeps the same amount of distance between them as before. The lovelorn goob. Derek looks into Stiles' face before he glances up at the ceiling and sighs, as if preparing himself.

__

“I- tried to scent you.”

__

Stiles frowns and then lets his brain run wild. He hasn’t seen very much of scenting beside that humiliating scene in high school lacrosse where he had Scott sniffing everyone but he knows it’s not something witnessed often.

__

It’s private. And Stiles didn’t even notice Derek leaning in. In fact when he’d turned his head to glance out the window at the darkness slowly settling in around them, Derek hadn’t been anywhere near his neck. Actually, Stiles distinctly remembered him looming above right over-

__

“You were sniffing my hair!” Stiles accuses, both immensely flattered and full of glee at the thought.

__

Derek looks highly disgruntled for a hot second but doesn’t try to correct Stiles. He’s not a liar even if that’s sometimes at his own expense. It takes a while for Stiles’ thoughts to catch up.

__

“Oh god even my _hair_ smells of wolfbane? Fuck this situation so hard.”

__

Derek’s expression is somewhat apologetic.

__

“Alright that does it. We are now going for a walk in the fresh air to prevent whatever that was from ever happening again.”

__

“I passed out. It’s called passing out, Stiles.”

__

“It’s unnatural is what it is,” Stiles shoots back, scooting up to fetch his joggers from the corner of the room.

__

Derek doesn’t bother to argue with him. Stiles still can’t believe he passed out trying to _sniff_ him.

__

The worst.  


__

Attempting to date a werewolf while jacked up on a strain of obliteration wolfsbane specifically designed to kill werwolves is going to be so much harder than he’d thought.

__

__

  
  


__

__

That night with the full moon out, knowing Derek- who left hours ago- and the rest of pack are now roaming freely through the woods somewhere in Beacon Hills without him, Stiles gets antsy.

__

‘Look, I’ll admit I know this is dumb,” he says, walking out past the front door after locking it and venturing into the dark alone with only his phone as a flashlight. “But I need to stretch my legs. I’m going stir-crazy again. You’ll watch my back, Lady Luna? Eternal moon goddess. Moonlight of my life.”

__

Stiles has got to stop talking to himself. And the moon. Except that’s probably not happening anytime soon. 

Nowadays he’s just resigned to his own strangeness. Maybe even relishes it a little. Ain’t no one like Stiles.

__

Derek seems to like it, a voice in his head gleefully volunteers and Stiles basically has no idea where he’s walking for the next few minutes while that overwhelming thought takes him for a ride. He might possibly pump his fists triumphantly in the air a few times though this would never be admitted to- not even under oath.

__

The walk is brisk, the air fresh and Stiles is feeling altogether good about the world while the moon basks on his shoulder helpfully illuminating the way. Eventually he tires of walking and turns around, deciding to return to the cabin and give Derek a call. Possibly to try and initiate phone sex.

__

He makes it all the way back to the clearing when something shifts.

__

No. The moonlight _flickers_.

__

And that’s not normal. Not even remotely. Stiles drops his phone by accident, twisting around to look and they’re all there. 

__

Dunkin’ Donuts hunters, slipping out of the darkened trees with the ominous approach of those who have been waiting for him a while and wanted to get the timing right. 

__

Probably for dramatic effect. 

__

Weirdly he doesn’t feel afraid. He’s just _ready_. This has been a long time coming.

__

“You really don’t want to do this,” he offers first. “Because I have every intention of defending myself and you saw how that went down the first time.”

__

They don’t seem to take this into account for the actual cautionary tale that it is. Or maybe they just don’t care all that much. Either way, not Stiles’ problem. He did warn them after all.

__

So when the first guy steps forward, looking vaguely like Bradley Cooper apart from the alarmingly wide beer gut at his waist, advancing on Stiles with a knife at the ready, he reaches out too, feeling no compunction about catching the hunter’s wrist.

__

He did say he had every intention of defending himself. And the presence of weapons tell him they’re playing for keeps. The guy doesn’t scream. It’s much too quick for the brain to process what’s happening, Stiles thinks, before the guy disintegrates.

__

“I _told_ you,” he says calmly, when the hunters, only four left now, pause in their tracks. “Do not come any closer, drop whatever dumb plan you’ve come up with and leave Beacon Hills. You know, with _your lives_.”

__

His advice goes straight over their heads, deaf to unwilling ears.

__

Stiles sighs as they advance, surrounding him again so he pushes his hands out and whirls around a few times. These guys don’t need much finesse and from the shouts he’s fairly confident he managed to touch at least one of them.

__

The darkness isn’t ideal but the moon seems to shine brighter in the clearing solely for him and Stiles rushes forward, trying to get into a hunter’s space, wary of the knives like they’re wary of his hands. It’s not so bad, really, four (possibly three) on one.

__

Stiles thinks he might be doing alright actually. Until a nearby hunter thinks to pick up a discarded tree branch and whack him over the head with it.

__

Then he goes down hard. 

__

Skull nearly split in two. He thinks he hears one of the men laugh at the undignified sprawl he lands in but that could very well be his imagination. 

__

Then he’s pretty much out after that.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Stiles wakes up tied to what looks like a doctor’s operating table. Or veterinarian’s. Either way he’s strapped to it. The whole enchilada. Wrists and ankles. And a strip of leather across his forehead preventing him from lifting his head too far off the table.

__

Very undignified all around as positions go.

__

The hunters are there too. Two of them moving about the room, holding several nasty looking tools and Stiles is willing to admit the situation is not so crash hot right now.

__

“Look,” he says, clearing his throat a little and ignoring the steady pounding at the back of his head warning of a whack well done. “Is there any possible way we could not do this? Part ways as unlikely friends?”

__

One of the guys doesn’t even glance at him, but the other one- the other one turns his empty eyes towards him. “No,” he says bluntly, as if he’s refusing to lend a pencil and not say, free Stiles from their captivity.

__

“We’ve worked too hard to get you.”

__

Stiles did not realise he’d made this much of an impression. So he says, weighing his words carefully and wisely, “huh?”

__

“We’d’ve grabbed you the first night,” says the guy who looks like he’s been whacked in the face with a frying pan too many times- lots of broken noses. “If your alpha wasn’t waiting at your curb like a dog.”

__

It hits him at once that they followed him home after their first attack. That he was being watched after all. And not by Derek. Or the Seberg family. But by these fucking hunters. He should have _known_.

__

“At first it was to make sure you died,” says the other one with a voice like gravel. “Since that’s how it always goes down- but then you made it past the 24 hour period-“

__

“And nobody ever makes it past the first 24 hours,” interjects Frying Pan guy.

__

“-So after that it was just a question of when we could grab you,” Gravel Voice helpfully explains. “Since it was too dangerous that first night with your alpha watching. With him in the house.”

__

A shiver crawls across his back, as Stiles realises the monumental difference Derek’s presence had made. That if it had just been him and his dad- that the hunters would have broken in. And his steadfast, affectionate father would have fought back in order to protect him. Possibly getting himself killed in the act.

__

All in order for them to get to Stiles. 

And suddenly he’s terribly, immensely grateful for Derek’s interfering, lurker-like qualities.

__

“It took a little longer than we’d thought getting at you,” Frying Pan admits. “Hard to approach the house at the right time and stay off the alpha’s radar when he was dropping in so often to check on you.”

__

Fuck, how long exactly have they been watching him?

__

“Things got tricker when they moved you to a safe house. Even shot with a crossbow, poisoned by wolfsbane your alpha managed to shake us. We’d figured we’d set off the alpha’s protective instincts since we always lost him trying to tail his car, but we found the cabin he had you stashed in eventually.”

__

Stiles opens his mouth to ask, but apparently kidnapping people makes them extra chatty because Gravel Voice clarifies, “Turns out we just had to follow the baby faced alpha- he didn’t even try to make sure nobody was following- just drove straight there.”

__

Scott. Fucking. _Dumbass_. McCall. If he was here right now Stiles is pretty positive he’d be strangling him.

__

Of all the reasons to get caught-

__

Once again Stiles’ life hangs in the balance and Scott has royally screwed him over. 

The situation does not have much room for improvement. And it’s safe to say these guys aren’t planning on letting him go now that they have him.

__

“The serum worked even better with you than what we could have imagined,” Frying Pan says, stepping closer to the table. “If there was a way we could inject ourselves with it without dying- become like you- we could actually stand a chance at wiping werewolves out for good.”

__

Stiles meets his gaze and does his best not to display fear.

__

“You guys need a new hobby. Like knitting or something. Redirect that rage into a healthier outlet.”

__

“I knit,” Gravel Voice volunteers from the opposite corner of the room, without raising his head. “I make woollen socks.”

__

Stiles loses some of his steam. “I don’t know how you managed to make that sound both creepy and threatening but hey you pulled it off, congrats.”

__

Knitting Gravel Voice guy doesn’t bother to answer just starts sharpening a pair of knives in his corner of the room. Stiles vehemently does not like it.

__

“So what are you then?” Frying Pan asks. “You can’t be human. Petey was human and you dusted him.”

__

Stiles struggles to recall for a moment who the hell Petey is before he remembers- the dude who probably first injected him. And became an ash puddle for his efforts. 

“I am human,” he insists, struggling a little against the bonds.

__

Frying Pan merely shrugs. “We’ll find out soon enough. Best way to figure out how to recreate this effect is through an autopsy.”

__

Stiles frowns at him. Still dazed from that blow to the head and struggling to keep up the conversation. 

“But I’m not dead- _oh_.” he licks his lips and tries to ignore the dryness in his throat while his sweat rapidly turns cold. “You guys are pretty fucked up, did you know that?”

__

Knitting Gravel Voice who is now hanging over him with the sharpened knives merely grins. 

__

“Seems to me. If you were human, you’d have died like Petey so I don’t have to feel any remorse killing one of our own.”

__

“I’m human,” Stiles insists again, annoyed now. “I bleed red like the rest of you bastards which I’m pretty sure I’m doing right now since one of you _hit me_ in the back of the head.”

__

“Don’t think so,” Knitting Gravel Voice counters, grinning a little maliciously himself. “You bleed purple, Devil. Not red.”

__

Stills huffs out a frustrated sound. “Yeah cause I’m jacked up on your dumb wolfsbane serum! You guys have ruined my life!”

__

“Seems to me then you’d be pretty happy for us to end it for you.”

__

Ugh there’s no reasoning with these people. Stiles strains against the leather pinning his head down like he’s trying to get within reach and bite the guy. Which to be fair, is appealing to him right now as an option.

__

“You fuckers are gonna regret this. Wait til I get outta here,” but the both of them are already laughing. “Wait til I-“

__

There’s a huge noise that obliterates the moment. Something that distinctly sounds like metal tearing and perhaps a little bit like a well-timed explosion.

__

The two hunters exchange glances. “Shit,” Knitting Gravel Voice says just as Frying Pan snatches up his gun and retorts,

__

“I _told_ you that alpha would be pissed we took him.”

__

And then they’re streaking out of the room, lifting the gun straps lying uselessly at their sides with the intent to pump something full of leaded wolfsbane. As soon as they’re out the door Stiles starts struggling in earnest, managing to turn his head to the side. 

__

This is manageable, he thinks and starts gathering spit in the back of his throat. He can do this. His wrist is kind of far away and the first attempt misses entirely so that his spit starts burning a hole in the table instead between his elbow and his hip.

__

Stiles gathers saliva in his mouth to try again, determined not to die here. They tied up his hands pretty thoroughly so that he can’t move them but they didn’t know anything about the acid spit thing. That was something Stiles had thought to keep up his sleeve until the very last minute.

__

And it’s paying for itself now.

__

Stiles spits again and hits his arm this time, spittle sliding harmlessly over the curve of his forearm until it hits the table and starts sizzling through that too. “Gross,” he mutters and tries to spit again.

__

Spitting is hard, especially longer distances but they’re underestimating how much of a disgusting little boy Stiles was growing up. On the third time his spit hits the leather band. As he battles to break free, the spit does its work and the band weakens immediately under the strain.

__

A second later and Stiles has gotten his left hand out. 

__

He uses it to pull the corner of the leather strapping his head down, spitting into his hand and wiping across it. Which, gross so gross but unbelievably effective. Once his head is free, Stiles can sit up properly so he starts working on his right wrist, ignoring the fading sense of dizziness and the tender feeling at the back of his skull.

__

Only once he’s got down to the last strap on his foot does the first gunshot go off. Stiles is shaking unbearably by now as he staggers off the metal slab and creeps out of the room, trying to go as unobtrusively as possible.

__

But he’s purple, dirty and, as the hunter said, bleeding a little sluggishly from the cut on the back of his head.

__

Some things don’t go unnoticed for very long.

__

__

  
  


__

__

He stumbles out into the hallway next and thankfully doesn’t see anyone else. After two run ins with the pack, he’s hopeful that their meagre numbers have dwindled even further.

__

He dusted scruffy guy aka Petey whose name does not suit at all. And also took out beer gut Bradley Cooper at the cabin. Possibly another. If there really was only ever six hunter dudes, well, there’s got to be half of them left by now.

__

Two that Stiles has just seen. The last one could be anywhere. And with Stiles’ hands free- and the pack, and Derek probably, all on their way to finding him he’s starting to likes those odds.

__

The abandoned compound they’re in has a pretty simple set up. Stiles is absolutely certain he’s already figured out his way to the exit and is on his way there, keeping close to the wall as he heads down the corridor when his feet stop.

__

Stiles glances down at them in surprise. He knows he’s told Jackson it was only twice with the weird, inexplainable feats of almost magic but this feels a lot like that. Stiles knows he’s not magic but he’s not ordinary either. 

__

Deaton said he could be a spark once, only he still has no idea what that means except that it’s clearly something he keeps doing. Enough to be a pattern. Stiles might not be magic. But it’s clear that sometimes the things he can do are inherently magical.

__

Like this.

__

Stiles looks up from his feet and takes in his surroundings, eyes resting on a closed door directly to his left. He’d have walked straight past it if his feet hadn’t stopped him.

__

But they _had_ stopped him.

__

Stiles reaches out and quietly opens the door. There’s steps immediately at the threshold and on the wall hanging to the right of the door are two hazmat suits that Stiles ignores, eyes trailing past the direction of the stairs. 

__

They descend down, down into the unseen secrecy of the dark.

__

It’s certain that it doesn’t lead anywhere remotely near the exit. But Stiles steps in and goes down anyway, shutting the door behind himself because he doesn’t want any of those hunters to figure out where he went.

__

It takes a least ten minutes to get to the very bottom of the stairs that’s how deep the room goes, also mostly because Stiles is taking each step so carefully as to avoid faceplanting into the gloom.

__

He knows what he’s doing is probably stupid. Definitely big breasted girl going to investigate the strange sound and dying in the first five minutes of a horror movie with her shirt half torn kind of dumb.

__

But – oh fuck it. Stiles is meddlesome. And he’s pretty sure what’s down here is gonna be good.

__

He proves his own theory before reaching the last step because by that point it’s no longer dark anymore. Something is giving off light in the furthest corner of the room. Stiles can smell soil and something else. Something inherently alive.

__

When the ground flattens out, Stiles takes a step towards it and realises whatever it is, isn’t just giving off its own light.

__

It’s glowing.

__

And not only that.

__

It’s glowing _purple_.

__

No wonder they had hazmat suits at the top of the stairs. Somehow Stiles isn’t even a little bit worried about poisoning himself. 

When he’s infected already.

__

“Here with go,” he mutters, feet dragging him forward as his eyes squint through the dim light and try to make out the shape of the thing that’s clearly very much alive and giving off its own radioactive glow ahead of him.

__

Stiles is certain all of a sudden that this is where the serum he was injected with came from. When he’s close enough, he also starts to realise the shape of it isn’t as small as his eyes originally led him to believe. The thing was just far away.

__

And it isn’t remotely small at all.

__

It’s massive.

__

And it’s wolfsbane.

__

For a second a trickle of anxiety pours down his spine because it looks like the Nemeton, fully grown. But then his brain catches up with the glowing and the purple and he realises it’s actually a wolfsbane tree.

__

A fucking wolfsbane tree. One that’s large enough to tower over him, that its branches ascend up into the dark, so high that they’ve probably hit the ceiling. There’s a mountain ahead of him too and that’s its roots spreading, crawling like an infestation across the entirety of the floor.

__

The glow of purple pulses sporadically every couple of seconds but Stiles can feel the energy in the air, the throb of power stifling the soil. It’s no wonder they buried it deep beneath the compound, they barely have control of it as it is. And he doesn’t need to touch it to know that this thing just wants to grow and grow and grow and grow.

__

Stiles has no idea how they cultivated it. He didn’t even know that you _could_. And Stiles is very much certain that Wolfsbane only could ever be a plant. Not a big monster like this. 

__

Wolfsbane trees don’t exist! It’s not a thing. Except it's pretty hard to deny what’s literally right in front of him though.

__

And something this big, if they managed to harvest that first dose from the wolfsbane tree, if they somehow figure out how to inject themselves without dying like Stiles did- there’s no telling how many werewolves they can kill.

__

Damn.

__

This is a goddamn bitch of a unsatisfactory situation. 

__

Stiles sighs and steps onto one of the roots, starting to climb steadily up toward the tree. He feels it shudder, understands that it knows he’s there somehow. That it recognises some of the sameness in him that’s buried deep within itself.

__

It creaks under his weight but nothing stops him when Stiles reaches the base of the trunk, panting slightly from the steepness of the hike. The tree is gargantuan. It’s impossible. It-

__

Well it needs to be stopped.

__

Obviously.

__

Good thing Stiles can turn living things to dust then isn’t it?

__

“Alright,” he says, because it feels fitting to say something to the evil tree that sort of unwittingly ruined his life for the past three months. “I’m gonna destroy you now and you’re gonna be really chill about it and die, okay?”

__

Then Stiles lays his hands on the trunk.

__

It doesn’t happen like the others. The bark shivers and suddenly there’s an odd humming in the air that Stiles never noticed before. He knows what’s in his hands, in his blood, is still ever powerful, and works fine but the lack of instantaneous results is surprising.

__

It takes a second to figure out that the sensation he’s getting from the wolfbane tree is resistance. The wolfsbane tree is trying to repel the energy, the raw destructive power of Stiles’ touch. And it might have been successful if wolfsbane energy was the only thing he had working for him.

__

When Stiles pushes back, exerting the slightest bit of effort just to see what happens, he feels an answering twinge in his gut. Something Stiles-like but also _other_.

__

It’s the otherness in him that’s the reason why he absorbed all the energy of the serum rather than being destroyed by it. And it’s that otherness now telling him the wolfsbane tree is attempting to kill him. 

Stiles grits his teeth. And wrenches his hands away.

__

“Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?” he hisses, like he’s talking to a particularly disobedient pet. “You made me like this, practically fucking ruined my life these past few months, turned me into a pariah, a monster, rubbed it in my face that the guy I want- might actually want me back and I can’t do any-fucking-thing about it and now, _now_ you’re trying to kill me? Huh?”

__

The hum in the air gets louder. But the otherness in Stiles gets louder too.

__

He’s angry he realises. No. Not that. Anger is too soft for this feeling. For a moment Stiles is nothing but the endless rage of his own heartbeat, boundlessly denied all these months and desperately, desperately hungry.

__

Stiles isn’t angry. He’s _apoplectic_.

__

“You want to hurt my people?” he whispers, swaying back towards the tree again, dizzy with wrath, with power, with his own unlimited potential. “You go through me. Except- we’re a bit tangled up at the moment, aren’t we?”

__

The hum is almost a shrill scream now but Stiles doesn’t even quiver at the sound. “I think I’ve proven I can handle you, you dumb fucking flower, but here’s the real question- the real kicker, buddy- reckon you can handle _me_?”

__

Stiles’ hands dart out and land on the trunk again only now he’s not inquisitively testing the waters just to see what will happen. This time he’s playing for keeps.

__

“How about I start by giving some of you back.”

__

Except this time, this time he focuses on everything that’s in him: the known and unknown, and what shouldn’t be and _pushes_. All of it. Directly into the wolfsbane tree.

__

“Absorb this, bitch,” he bites out.

__

And then the whole world breaks apart.

__

__

  
  


__

__

When Stiles opens his eyes he’s standing unharmed in the rubble of what used to be the compound in the remains of what is most definitely the wolfsbane tree. 

__

Except there isn’t any remnants, not even a stray particle of dust. The serum might have given him the power to incinerate things, but he obliterated the wolfsbane tree all on his own.

__

“Wow, holy shit,” he says, impressed despite himself for a moment before he realises he’s standing in the crater of the basement where the tree was housed and the compound was clearly built at the bottom of a valley for extra seclusion and so that means he now has to climb his way out of all of it. “Aw fuck, come _on_.”

__

He cannot catch a break here.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Once he reaches the lip of the valley, he spots the pack standing at the edge, frantically scanning for survivors.

__

Namely himself.

__

“Stiles!” Scott cries joyfully, no trace of their earlier fight on his face.

__

But everyone else seems more focused on the utter destruction clearly wrought behind him. “Stiles what the fuck?”

__

He reaches the top, panting slightly and dusts his hands off on his jeans. “Look,” he says, already grinning. “I’m not saying that I basically took down that whole building and the fucked up steroid wolfsbane tree they had hidden in the basement- but well-“

__

“Sounds like that’s exactly what you’re saying,” Derek interjects, coming to stand at his side, expression open with relief.

__

And man, is Stiles ever glad to see him. He’s not at all successful at hiding the satisfaction on his face. Derek stares back at him a second too long.

__

“And how did you take down a wolfsbane tree exactly?” Isaac wonders, pointedly interrupting.

__

“By giving it a taste of its own medicine,” he explains, dragging his eyes away from Derek. “I don’t think it liked it very much. Couldn’t handle its own juice.”

__

Stiles is still pretty impressed with himself it turns out. “Couldn’t handle you more like,” Derek mutters under his breath.

__

That’s enough to make him grin.

__

“Well, we totally helped,” Erica protests, sounding disappointed somehow. “Lydia basically blew up their fuel tank.”

__

Lydia is practically vibrating with gratification. “I _really_ enjoyed that.”

__

Stiles glances back down at the total mess of the compound and starts to wonder. “How come you guys got up here so fast?”

__

Their presence here beyond the wreckage seems oddly convenient. Erica glances over at Derek first before replying. “The air started to hum- and you hadn’t come out yet and Derek said-“

__

“I knew it was you,” Derek interrupts, shrugging. “Only you could be that much of a nuisance.”

__

Stiles grins and opens his mouth to support this fact-

__

And then the ground crumbles away beneath his feet.

__

Stiles sees Scott’s wide eyes, sees Lydia turn, mouth open in horror, the sharp intake of Allison’s gasp as she jerks closer. Everyone seems to dart forward, hands outstretched out of reach. Because it becomes very clear in the hairs breadth of a second. 

Stiles might be able to bring about great destruction. But he isn’t indestructible. A fall like this, back into the concrete and the rubble will definitely kill him. 

__

And he sees the truth of that reflected back in all of his friend’s shocked faces.

__

And Derek, Derek who always stands too close. Who places himself in the direct path of danger. When the ground falls away, plummeting Stiles toward a jagged ending, Derek lunges forward and catches at his bare wrist.

__

When he feels Derek’s touch, for the first time in months, his entire body recoils.

__

“ _No_!” Stiles shouts, pulling away, but Derek has already yanked him upward, a fit of werewolf strength before tossing Stiles to safety first.

__

He hits the ground hard, not pausing to feel it as he spins and scrambles back for Derek.

__

For what will be left of Derek.

__

Oh god.

__

He’s lying on the ground, eyes wide, stunned and still intact so far but Stiles doesn’t take that as any kind of relief. He rushes to his side, dropping at the knees to hover over him, cursing with frustration when he has to curb his first instinct to cradle Derek’s face.

__

“Derek,” he gasps, terrified and twisted up inside at the expression of pain in Derek’s eyes.

__

There’s a faint sheen of steam emanating from Derek’s skin as his muscles tremble. When too many beats have passed and he hasn’t been eradicated from the face of the earth, Stiles actually dares to hope.

__

“Stiles,” Scott gasps a beat later, hovering over his back. “I think you’re out of juice.”

__

Oh god. Please. _Please_ let that be true.

__

But another beat passes and Derek is still here so maybe Scott’s- maybe Scott’s _right_.

__

“Derek,” Stiles repeats, heart pounding furiously, ignoring Scott, ignoring everything else. “Are you- do you feel-?“

__

Derek’s expression relaxes. He eventually stops steaming. And his trembling muscles go still.

__

“I feel- fine.”

__

Then he follows such a life changing statement with a smile. A smile in Stiles’ direction, as he starts to sit up and reach for his hand again. He holds it for a few seconds longer than he did earlier before Stiles wrenches it violently out of his grip.

__

“I cannot believe you,” he hisses, raw fury, shaking every word.

__

Derek starts to frown. “What-?”

__

“Did you know? When you grabbed me that I’d already drained the power? Did you know that you weren’t going to _die_ if you touched me?!”

__

Derek doesn’t answer in so many words. But his jaw sets itself, a long stubborn line and Stiles has his answer. He has his fucking answer alright.

__

“I couldn’t let you fall.”

__

“So you dying at my hands is the alternative?” Stiles explodes, launching to his feet and reeling away. “That’s what you were gonna leave me with?”

__

“Stiles-“ Derek says, reaching for him again but Stiles jerks back even further.

__

“Fuck off,” he spits, tone wobbling. “And fuck _you_ , Derek.”

__

And then he’s pushing past Scott to try and get away from this godforsaken wooded labyrinth and everything else as far as his feet can take him.

__

__

  
  


__

__

He makes it out past the trees, seems to know instinctively where to walk until his shoes reach the road.

__

The snap of a twig announces someone behind him. Stiles whirls around, fully expecting it to be Derek but it’s not. It’s Scott.

__

“Do you want to leave?” Scott asks quietly. “I drove your jeep out. I can take you straight home.”

__

Stiles nods, gratefully, helplessly, though his expression twists when he spots Derek running up after them. He turns away next.

__

“Stiles, wait-“

__

He doesn’t and starts moving in what he hopes is the direction of his jeep. “I don’t want to talk to you right now, I’m too angry.”

__

“Can I just expl- ”

__

There’s an odd shuffling sound and Stiles turns back in time to see lo and behold that Scott has physically dragged himself in front of Derek, blocking his approach.

__

“Derek, he said no.”

__

For a second time, Stiles takes a minute to be surprised by Scott and appreciative of his help. Derek doesn’t back off but he does stop trying to get nearer, his eyes never straying from Stiles. “Okay. Okay.”

__

Stiles hates how his voice sounds then, quietly accepting.

__

Fuck, he needs to get out.

__

And away.

__

__

  
  


__

__

They don’t say much on the drive back to Beacon Hills, Stiles doesn’t feel like talking beside what’s necessary.

__

Like asking where his dad is.

__

“He’s at the station getting ready to file a missing person’s report. He wanted to come out searching but I made him promise not to. We needed someone at the station.”

__

Stiles starts madly scrambling for his phone before he realises that it’s resting on the forest floor somewhere around Derek’s murder cabin, and he’d rather have no phone then go back there right now.

__

“Oh it’s here,” Scott says, figuring out the object of his search and dragging what is definitely Stiles’ phone out of the jeep’s console and handing it to him only a little worse for wear. “Derek found it when he got to the cabin and realised you were gone.”

__

Stiles grimaces and unlocks it in preparation of rapid fire sending a text to his father.

__

“It’s okay,” Scott says again, reading him easily. “I sent your dad an update when we saw you climbing up the valley. He knows you’re fine. Well more or less fine.”

__

Stiles relaxes a little and then what Scott said finally sinks in. They didn’t really need anyone at the station. Rule of law doesn’t really much come into play with the supernatural though the uncovered bodies tend to overlap.

__

Scott lied to his dad to keep him out of play. Out of danger. It’s the exact move that Stiles would have made if he’d been in his position.

__

“Thanks,” he says slowly still somewhat shell-shocked by Scott’s sudden attentiveness. “For keeping my dad out of it.”

__

Scott nods, but doesn’t say anything else. He’s already picked up on Stiles’ mood and seems happy to fall into the role of silent chauffeur while Stiles looks out the window and tries his very best not to think of Derek and the burning anger still rolling around inside him.

__

The trees are flying past his range of vision when he gets an idea.

__

“Could you- could you pull over, dude?”

__

Scott does so without question, tires skidding across gravel as he careens over to the shoulder. 

Stiles scrambles out of the jeep and moves over to a tree, hesitating for a second before yanking a leaf right off the branch. It doesn’t evaporate under his touch, which is wholly reassuring. Stiles takes it back with him into the car.

__

Scott doesn’t make any comments about it but he seems to realise what motivated his efforts.

__

"Your- uh. Your skin is changing colour again." 

__

Stiles, who hasn't really taken the time to inspect himself closely finally looks down at his skin and Scott is right. The purple is fading. Stiles is actually starting to see the beginnings of what is his natural skin tone. Huh. 

__

He makes a non-committal acknowledgement of the fact before returning back to the leaf. Stiles holds it in his palm the rest of the way home and it doesn’t burn, or vanish or turn to dust.

__

The relief he feels, seeing that stupid green leaf still resting in his palm is beyond explanation.

__

__

  
  


__

__

When they make it back to Beacon Hills, Stiles’ father has already returned home from the station.

__

Stiles staggers out of the jeep before Scott’s fully cut the engine, already charging at his dad standing in the doorway.

__

His father, who seems to use those first few seconds to scan Stiles, realise he’s no longer purple and tattooed, as well as any and every injury to the dried blood on the side of his head and the bruises on his knees when he tripped over the roots of that dumb wolfsbane tree before his face is sagging with relief.

__

“Thank go-“ he barely starts before Stiles is diving into his arms.

__

“It’s okay,” his father says, and there he is a second later, like clockwork, rubbing soothingly at Stiles’ back.

__

God Stiles has missed _hugs_.

__

“I’m not purple,” he manages to say, though it comes out shakily because Stiles is crying and didn’t even notice.

__

“I can see that.”

__

“I don’t murder people anymore either.”

__

His father gives him another generous pat and starts hauling him into the house. “Good for you, kid.”

__

Right?  


“Thanks Scott,” the sheriff calls out as his best friend climbs out of the jeep a second later. His thanks sounds a lot like ‘goodbye’, which doesn’t surprise Stiles in the least considering how flaky Scott has been lately.

__

“No problem,” Scott says seemingly oblivious as he walks inside after them. “I’m gonna crash here tonight. I think Stiles could use some company.”

__

Stiles does his very best not to laugh contemptuously at that and succeeds only by the skin of his teeth. His father covers that split second of surprise well. Better late than never.

__

“Where’s Derek-?” he starts to ask before Stiles shakes his head forcefully and lets himself be led into the living room, catching Scott making a warning face at his father behind his back.

__

Stiles pulls away from his dad with a sigh, wiping at his general eye area as they were spontaneously leaking earlier and he did not enjoy the malfunction. “Just tell him. I’m gonna sink into this couch.”

__

Stiles does just that, and so Scott does the same, launching into the story of Derek finding Stiles’ cabin abandoned, locating his phone outside and alerting the pack. Followed by the group managing to track the hunters down based off a licence plate they got from the Dunkin’ Donuts footage Erica procured from an overly helpful employee to the inevitable rescue at the compound and the unfortunate aftermath.

__

Stiles’ entire body tenses up when Scott gets to the bit where Derek touched his bare skin in order to save him- having no idea the act wouldn’t kill him.

__

“Oh,” the sheriff responds, and Stiles doesn’t need his eyes open to know his dad has just glanced over at him. “I see.”

__

“Do not even consider thanking him,” he commands from his position on the couch. “Or shaking his hand or whatever version of dad gratefulness you want to express right now.”

__

He knows exactly what is passing through his father’s brain and it’s not good. “Stiles- he saved your life.”

__

“At expense of his own!” Stiles shouts, all the fury from earlier exploding out of him so viscerally that something to his left actually shatters. 

__

The living room lamp it sounds like. Stiles heaves a breath and tries to calm himself. “Do _not_ reinforce the behaviour, Dad.” 

__

From the silence Scott and his father are probably wordlessly freaking out over Stiles’ more than overt display of strangeness. It hadn’t been so obvious before. 

Taking on a sentient wolfsbane tree and winning apparently has some side effects.

__

“Yeah, pretty fucked up,” Scott agrees, summing it up in the usual Scott-like fashion. “But at least he didn’t die.”

__

Stiles grunts something unflattering under his breath but makes no other effort to engage in the conversation further. Mostly because he’s certain more things will blow up.

__

“You should probably see Deaton later, right?” his father wonders. “Just to check that everything really is fine.”

__

“I’ll call him now,” Scott says, still overly helpful as he grabs his phone out and starts to ring his boss.

__

Great. More uncomfortable moments standing in Deaton’s empty clinic while he gets stared at. He’ll probably insist he takes off his shirt too to check the tattoos are gone- they are- Stiles realised when he inspected himself in the car on the drive back here.

__

Still, he would rather avoid Deaton if he can manage it.

__

The fact that Scott returns to the living room with two thumbs up five minutes later suggests this was a pipe dream not entirely working in his favour.

__

Ugh.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Scott driving him over to Deaton’s clinic twenty minutes later in order for his boss to beckon them into the operating room just so he can ask Stiles to remove his clothes, inspect him closely with a magnifying glass of all things and take both a blood and saliva sample- feels very much like a punishment undeserved.

__

But at least Deaton decides he is fit for human interaction again.

__

Or as much as Stiles can be.

__

It’s not like he changed personalities in the past three months.

__

__

  
  


__

__

His father’s methods of celebration for Stiles’ full recovery revolve around the act of ordering in pizza for dinner- sneaking in a meatlovers _and_ a large garlic bread.

__

If he thinks he’s winning this war against Stiles’ rigorous dieting methods he’s got another thing coming. But tonight, Stiles permits the small victory.

__

“Can I borrow some clothes?” Scott asks needlessly, after they’ve eaten dinner and disappeared up to Stiles’ bedroom.

__

The question seems pointless while he’s already riffling through Stiles’ drawers and helping himself. Stiles drops onto his bed with a sigh, finally ready to duke things out with Scott now that his anger over Derek’s selfless act has somewhat abated.

__

“You know how they found me right?” he says, staring at Scott with open frankness.

__

Scott turns towards him, expression shifting as his brow furrows. “Yeah that was weird, wasn’t it? Like it was over two months after the Dunkin’ Donuts thing I thought they would have just given up after that long.”

__

Sweet, naïve, Scott McCall.

__

“Oh no. They’d been stalking me since the get go but didn’t have a clear shot with Derek popping in and out of my place so often- then I moved out to the middle of nowhere.”

__

Scott keeps frowning. “But you were in that cabin alone for so long why didn’t they grab you earlier?”

__

Man, Stiles really wants to smack him.

__

“Because,” he says slowly so it can really sink in. “They didn’t know where I was. Anytime the pack visited Derek gave them his fucked up directions so they took a different route each time. In order to make it harder for them to be tailed.”

__

Scott is still not catching up. 

__

“But-“

__

“At least until I quote ‘we had to follow the baby faced alpha’ who drove straight there.”

__

Scott withdraws in horror. “ _Me_? I’m the reason they found you?”

__

“Yeah, Dude. Like no offence but we all knew there was the possibility they were lingering around town- everyone else took the precaution. Everyone but you.”

__

Especially Derek, who Stiles now understands, still managed to evade those hunters and prevent them knowing Stiles’ location after they’d shot him with a crossbow and he’d raced over there practically bleeding out in his car. 

Scott ruining all of Derek’s months of careful effort in the span of one afternoon just really tops the cake.

__

“I- shit, Stiles. I’m so sorry.”

__

But Scott’s guilty face and his many apologies aren’t gonna cut it anymore. “How could you be so thoughtless? With my life on the line?”

__

Scott’s eyes only get wider.

__

“Fuck, I don’t know. I just- didn’t think. Shit, Stiles. I’m sorry. You’re right. You were right about everything I _have_ been a bad friend.”

__

“Yeah,” because duh.

__

“What can I-“ Scott starts, then cuts himself off. “No, fuck I even need your advice on how to be a better friend- crap. No. Okay. I’ll figure it out on my own, please don’t give up on me, dude. Just- give me a chance to make it up to you. I’ll try more from now on I swear but you have to tell me too when you’re not happy about something.”

__

“Okay,” Stiles agrees because that _is_ fair. Scott isn’t a mind reader after all. “I will. But I’m gonna have a ten year nap now. So you do whatever it is you do.”

__

“Okay,” Scott agrees, but Stiles is already kicking off his shoes and disappearing under the blankets.

__

Peace out purple world it’s been real.

__

Sleep comes for him before his head has even hit the pillow.

__

__

  
  


__

__

With the morning comes reality.

__

And the reality is- all of his crap is at Derek’s murder cabin. So he’s probably gonna need that sooner or later. Which means a return is on the cards.

__

“Do you want to go back?” Scott wonders from his side of the bed after Stiles mentions the emerging dilemma.

__

He can’t stop glancing at his bedroom window somehow expecting Derek to come vaulting through it at any minute. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or happy that he hasn’t. Stiles sighs at the thought. “I kind of have to- all my stuff is there.”

__

“I can get it all for you,” Scott insists, actually meaning it.

__

Friend points awarded to Scott McCall in a surprise turn of events. But this is Stiles’ problem he shouldn’t be relying on Scott to fix it.

__

“Nah, I probably should do it myself. Closure and all that. Just don’t want to run into Derek.”

__

“Cause you’ll fight,” Scott guesses, sagely.

__

“Because I _will_ have sex with him if we’re alone for two seconds and then he’ll think what he did was right and we cannot have that, Scott.”

__

Scott makes a face at the thought. “Or you could just control yourself and not sleep with him? At least until you guys have sorted things out.”

__

Stiles thinks of the fact that he can touch people now without killing them. That if he wants he can put his hand to Derek's everything. That he can get Derek naked if he’s amenable. 

__

They can be naked _together_. So many positions. So many possibilities.

__

“No, I’m gonna.”

__

“Yeah,” Scott says already grinning. “Don’t know why I suggested you could control yourself.”

__

“Right?” Stiles sighs. “I don’t know how I managed the first few times. Orgasms with Derek are intense.”

__

It is possible to be angry with someone and want to have sex with them at the same time. Stiles is very much discovering this about himself.

__

“Wait what?” Scott practically squawks at him, eyes wide with surprise as he nearly tumbles out of the bed. “You guys already- did stuff? When you were- but _how_?”

__

Stiles has to admit the expression of utter confusion on Scott’s face is kind of amusing. So he just waggles his eyebrows and feels very pleased with himself and Derek’s innovative thinking. “How do you think?”

__

“Oh my god,” Scott says faintly, but the expression on his face says he’s going through an entire reel of possibilities. 

A second later he looks faintly impressed.

__

“When did this all happen?”

__

“Like the day I got kidnapped.”

__

“Huh,” Scott says, thinking about it. “No wonder Derek was in such a good mood on that pack run.”

__

Stiles visibly preens at that.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Two days later he decides it’s finally time to drive back to the cabin and collect the rest of his stuff. He makes sure it’s early in the morning when the rest of the pack, including Derek is doing a training run so a certain someone won’t be making any appearances.

__

Scott promises to text him if Derek’s on the move. Like they’re a pair of co-conspirators again, which Stiles has to admit has been pretty refreshing to experience lately. He barely finishes stuffing his last shirt into the duffel bag when his phone buzzes a warning that things possibly didn’t go to plan just as the door swings open at the front. 

__

Derek storms in right after, looking a little annoyed to discover the pack using themselves as decoys on Stiles’ behalf. Stiles glances down and sees Scott’s name on his phone. Oh well he tried to warn him. 

Fine. If Derek wants this fight then he’s getting it.

__

Stiles calmly zips the bag up and tosses it to the ground, spinning about to face him.

__

“I can’t believe that you would even do that,” he says launching straight into it as if it hasn’t been several days since they’ve seen one another. There’s no need for pleasantries at this point. “That you would think that was an acceptable outcome somehow.”

__

Derek moves in until he’s close, until he’s about the same distance he used to be when Stiles was explosive and it takes him by surprise to realise Derek’s been treating him the exact same way all along.

__

“I wasn’t thinking about your feelings, I was thinking about mine. It was all instinct. I didn’t want you to die and that was all that mattered to me.”

__

In this moment, Derek’s thoughts are actually the least surprising thing about him. But that doesn’t make Stiles any more inclined to forgive his actions. “But putting your death on my hands, how did you think I’d want to live with that? Why I’d even be remotely okay with-“

__

“You’d still be alive.” 

__

“But what would that matter?” Stiles cries, reaching out in a fit of frustration and gripping the front of Derek’s shirt. “If I didn’t have- you?”

__

Derek goes impossibly still.

__

“If I’d been the one to kill you.”

__

Then the stubborn expression on Derek’s face settles in more firmly. “Whatever had happened between us- you’d get over it.”

__

Stiles’ mouth falls open and he lets go of him abruptly. “How can you _say_ that?”

__

Derek begins to grimace as if even he can’t believe that came out of his mouth- a true show of weakness. One Stiles isn’t sure he’s been allowed to witness before. But that still isn’t enough to stop him.

__

“God, I’ve said so much, done so much really. Anything to show how I- But you still-“ Stiles shifts again, reaching out for Derek and touching his forearm. “Why don’t you believe me?”

__

Derek tenses up and pulls away.

__

“What are you talking about.”

__

“I mean it’s like you think I’m gonna-“

__

Stiles trails off as it comes to him. Oh. _Oh_. God how could he have been so fucking stupid.

__

“That you’re gonna what?” Derek echoes, pushing now, and he can read on Stiles’ face that he’s put his foot in it. 

__

That he understood exactly what directions his thoughts had taken. “Burn my house down?”

__

Stiles flinches. “I- that wasn’t what I meant. I didn’t think-“

__

“What are you trying to say? That I can’t trust people not to try and kill me- not even you?”

__

“Derek-“

__

“Because at this point it’s a fair tactic. Why do you think I survived this long? When everyone is my enemy eventually. Chris, Scott, you. Prove me wrong, Stiles.”

__

Stiles moves closer again and puts his hand to Derek’s chest, feels it rise and fall with the effort of everything he’s saying.

__

“I am,” he says softly, gently. “I will.”

__

Derek blinks. And some of the wall, his resistance unravels. And then he lunges forward. Another primed werewolf attack. Except his mouth hits Stiles’ first.

__

Stiles was expecting it to some degree. Hoping for it. Planning his own smooth segue into their kissing somehow, but as always Derek takes the wheel and wrenches it out of the steering console. 

And somehow it still takes Stiles by surprise.

__

“You fucker,” he mumbles into Derek’s open mouth. “You absolute fucker.”

__

Derek hums something that sounds a lot like agreement and then his hands are sliding across Stiles’ lower back, gripping him tight and dragging him closer until they’re flush together.

__

Which, _finally_.

__

“I thought-“ Derek says in between kisses. “You were- mad. At me.”

__

Stiles’ hands are in Derek’s hair and he can’t seem to stop kissing him, practically attacking his mouth. “I am. Fucking furious- with you. You ass- hole.”

__

Derek groans against his lips and lifts Stiles bodily into the air, encouraging him to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist.

__

“I love you,” Stiles pants into Derek’s mouth, kissing along his stubble, his stupid chin. “God, I fucking love you. Do you understand- the stake I have. In keeping you alive- you absolute fuckblossom?”

__

Derek pulls away, or at least he tries to but Stiles is too busy enthusiastically kissing every inch of his face, rolling his hips determinedly against Derek’s while his legs scramble to stay upright and wrapped around him.

__

“I understand- Stiles,” Derek replies sounding breathless. “I hear you.”

__

Oh man is he gonna do bad things to Derek right now. “On the bed,” Stiles instructs between gasps of air into his lungs. “Fuck- Derek.”

__

He seems to take instruction well because Stiles has barely begun properly writhing against him when Derek is taking a few steps toward the direction of the mattress. Stiles aligns their hips properly a second later and starts grinding against Derek’s bulge more furiously than before.

__

“Turn around,” Stiles insists. “I wanna be on top.” 

__

And Derek does so obligingly, letting Stiles crash him down onto the bed with his weight, releasing out a strangled sound of surprise when Stiles shimmies down onto Derek’s thighs and immediately starts working on his pants.

__

“Jesus, Stiles,” he mutters when Stiles gets his fly open, tugs his briefs down and pulls his dick out without any fanfare.

__

God it’s- better than he’d even imagined. And he’s waited long enough.

__

“Oh good, good,” Stiles says, nonsensically. ”I’m just gonna-“

__

“Yeah,” Derek responds without any real eloquence.

__

And Stiles is giving Derek’s dick a gentle pump, just to enjoy the weight of it in his hand before bending down and getting his mouth on him.

__

Derek curses like this was somehow an unexpected outcome but Stiles is too busy sucking on the head of his dick to pay him any real attention. When he feels the muscles bunch up underneath his legs, Stiles grins and takes Derek’s dick fully into his mouth.

__

He’s big. Bigger than that guy Stiles’ sucked off last year at the Halloween rave party but it doesn’t seem to matter much because it’s Derek, and Stiles’ mouth is practically watering anyway.

__

“Jesus,” Derek says again when Stiles opens his throat and completely commits to cramming every inch of Derek’s cock into his mouth. When his lips touch Derek’s balls and the hair of his pubic region, Stiles’ swallows, breathes through his nose and tries to calm himself down.

__

Because he already feels like he’s a second away from coming in his pants.

__

Derek’s hand reaches down next and cups the back of Stiles’ neck, not holding but enough that Stiles can feel him. He groans around Derek’s cock, so unbelievably turned on, especially when Derek starts up a round of cursing again and his hips buck almost unintentionally.

__

Stiles, who was prepared for it, eases back a little and basically begins fucking his face on Derek’s cock. Since Derek seems like too much of a gentlemen to do it for him. Because he also knows it’ll feel good. And Derek should have the nicer things in life.

__

Even if he is a self-sacrificing walnut.

__

Derek’s fingers flex against his neck and Stiles uses that as an indication of what works best, when they tremble or shift minutely against his hot skin. That and the sounds Derek lets out are good enough to steer him in the right direction.

__

A few minutes in, when Stiles’ jaw is aching pleasantly and Derek’s hips are moving minutely against him, gently pushing his cock deeper into his mouth, Stiles is about ready to burst. So it takes him a little by surprise that Derek hasn’t come yet.

__

At first he thinks he might have his technique all wrong. One blowjob does not an expert make. Until he listens carefully to the noises Derek’s making, the way he’s practically throbbing in Stiles’ mouth, hot and stiff and beyond erect, and then he realises he should stop comparing himself to Halloween blowjob guy who blew his load within the first two minutes.

__

Because these experiences are clearly two different things. And Derek Hale clearly has a _lot_ more stamina. 

__

It hits him all at once, and Stiles’ pleasure peaks and overflows, moaning around Derek’s dick as his orgasm sneaks up on him. Derek’s hand actually tightens on his neck, clenching hard for a moment before releasing his grip entirely and Stiles whimpers around his cock, easing off just for a moment to get his breath back.

__

He’s twitching and sensitive in his jeans and Stiles feels astonished somehow that he’s the one who managed to come first just sucking Derek’s dick until he realises his hips were moving until just a second ago and he’s basically been rutting against Derek’s legs the whole time just for some friction.

__

Derek’s dick is practically dripping precum at this point and Stiles shivers and shifts up to meet his eyes.

__

“Oh fuck, I can smell you,” Derek murmurs, eyes wild as his hips jerk up involuntarily. 

__

Stiles watches his dick bob against his stomach and feels a desperate want curl in his gut. “You need,” he rasps, voice croaky and unsteady from all the cock sucking. “To come in my mouth.”

__

Derek’s chest is heaving a little and Stiles has to admit he likes seeing him so worked up even as his knuckles brush against Stiles’ cheekbone. “God,” he breathes, and Derek turned on is a sight indeed. “Anything.” 

__

Stiles grins, pulling Derek’s hand back to his neck again as he leans forward and takes hold of Derek’s dick, opening his mouth and licking gently at the head. Derek drops back onto the pillows with a sigh, hand flexing against the back of Stiles’ neck again as he surrenders to Stiles’ attempts to bring about the best orgasm of his life.

__

It’s good Stiles is a determined fucker because it turns out Derek is not an easy egg to crack. It takes time to really work him up. But luckily Stiles is willing to put in the effort.

__

He feels it when Derek starts to get close, how his thrusts lengthen out, as if he needs to stay inside Stiles’ mouth, in the heat of it, for a little longer. His body gradually starts to tense up, muscle tightening and moving as if in resistance to the approaching orgasm and Stiles determinedly ignores the state of his jaw, the pool of saliva running past his chin and starts working Derek’s cock faster, bobbing his head unwaveringly.

__

When he comes, Derek doesn’t make a sound but Stiles feels it in the way every inch of him goes rigid before the innate, inflexible parts of him unexpectedly yield. How the rush of Derek’s come unexpectedly floods Stiles’ mouth until he catches on enough to remember to swallow not panic and Derek is collapsing quietly back onto the mattress, jerking sensitively through the aftershocks.

__

Stiles does his best to get as much as possible before letting Derek slip out past his lips, wiping at the swollen state of his mouth as he struggles in vain to get his breath back.

__

Because _whoa_.

__

“Fuck,” he gasps, still sounding croaky. “Holy shit, Derek.”

__

The object of his affection and previous dick worship manages to raise his head up off the pillow, looking spaced out and relaxed. “You are,” he begins quietly, sounding sweetly overcome. “ _Really_ good at that.”

__

Stiles thinks it’s very likely he’ll combust before the day is out. Also that his ego is very much inflating to an impossible size. 

Because Derek Hale. Derek Hale’s _dick_.

__

Everything is right with the world.

__

__

  
  


__

__

For a werewolf, Derek gets his second wind back even quicker than Stiles who is admittedly younger and thus should have the better refractory period.

__

“Want to go again?” he wonders, having now removed his jeans and his shirt, along with Stiles’ while they were lying in bed together.

__

Stiles actually looks at him like he’s crazy. “What kind of ridiculous question is that?” he demands, already in the midst of removing his own pants. “Yes. Emphatically yes.”

__

“Have you been with a guy before?” Derek wonders before correcting. “Have you taken a guy before?”

__

Stiles’ dick is beyond hard at the thought.

__

“No, but only for lack of options not interest,” he admits.

__

“Because I don’t mind either way.”

__

And this is a lot of information coming Stiles’ way about Derek, holy Jesus is it ever. “I’m gonna be honest right now I don’t think I’d last long if I was fucking you and since you’ve already proven your stamina-“

__

Derek smirks.

__

“I think you should probably fuck me first. But yeah I’m definitely open to trying everything.”

__

“Okay,” Derek says immediately, already grabbing at Stiles and half sitting up. “I want to- I need to finger you-“

__

Yes, that is a thing that needs to happen.

__

“Shit. Yeah,” Stiles agrees, skin hot as he lets Derek drag him up until they’re face to face and then Derek’s kissing him before Stiles can wonder about the logistics of searching for his lube somewhere in the mess of the duffel bag.

__

Derek somehow manages to lean down while kissing him, and takes care of the lube problem anyway. Stiles hears the tell-tale zip of his duffel bag opening a second later. He didn’t realise it was so within their reach or that Derek could be so deft with his hands when necessary. But what a nice discovery.

__

He also discovers Derek has a hidden talent for removing underwear apparently because Stiles is naked in next to no time. And then Derek’s undressed as well, procuring a condom from god knows where because it certainly wasn’t in Stiles’ possession.

__

“You should lay on your stomach,” Derek offers, and Stiles is more than onboard with this plan.

__

He rolls over and presses his face into the pillow, feeling nervous and expectant and excited at the thought of finally trying this. And with Derek. 

“Let me know if you want me to stop,” Derek mutters, fingers skimming up the back of Stiles’ thighs before resting at his ass. “Or if there’s anything wrong.”

__

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, because he’ll pretty much agree to anything right now as long as Derek puts his fingers in him.

__

He hears the cap of his lube opening, before there’s the sensation of fingers trailing between his ass cheeks. The lube isn’t cold, Derek obviously warmed it up first but somehow Stiles is still surprised at the touch.

__

Derek massages at his ass for a bit, skating over his hole and obviously doing everything in his power to build suspense. “Would you just-“ Stiles huffs out after two minutes of nothing. “Stick it in me already. I’m not that delicate.”

__

Derek snorts with amusement. “Clearly,” he agrees, and then he’s pushing a finger inside.

__

Stiles hisses in shock more than anything else, though it was his own goading that made it happen. Derek goes slow, pushing the finger in deeper as he slowly eases into Stiles’ body.

__

“Okay?”

__

“Not dead,” Stiles clarifies, squirming a little against the pressure in his ass, and the throbbing in his cock.

__

Derek keeps massaging his other fingers, slick with lube against the ring of Stiles’ opening so that it’s almost not even a thing to press a second finger inside. Stiles frowns, feeling only syrupy, toe curling heat from the pressure and none of the discomfort that he expected that would come with being stretched open.

__

Even as Derek starts carefully scissoring his fingers apart.

__

“Are you-“ Stiles gasps a little. “Are you taking my pain away or something?”

__

Derek’s fingers pause inside him. “No?”

__

“Oh,” Stiles says, blushing now. “So you’re just really gifted at this? Good to know.”

__

He inserts a third finger with about the same simplicity as the first two, though Stiles is really starting to feel the stretch now. Which is entirely the point. It’s still not painful though just something else.

__

He lets Derek work him open, adding more lube when he deems necessary, focusing on Stiles’ ass with intense precision. But after five minutes, Stiles is unable to ignore the sensation of heat in his dick, the sparking rush of pleasure each time Derek’s fingers work up against what is clearly his prostate.

Also he's impatient. 

__

“Are you just playing with my ass now?”

__

Derek hums an affirmative and leans down to kiss along Stiles’ spine. “Maybe a little. Want to make sure you’re really stretched.”

__

Stiles groans in frustration, moving against Derek’s fingers in him. “I feel like you definitely succeeded in doing that. So do you want to put your dick in me or what?”

__

Derek’s fingers go still inside him again and that’s not what Stiles wants either. “You have such a way with words,” Derek replies delicately, before he’s carefully removing his fingers.

__

Stiles immediately feels his hole try to close around the empty space before there's the sound of foil packaging tearing. 

“Do you want to use a condom?” he asks. “Do you even need to?”

__

Derek pauses again.

__

“Do _you_ want me to wear a condom?”

__

Stiles thinks about it. Pretty sure werewolves can’t get diseases but what about-

__

“I don’t carry diseases either,” Derek responds, reading his mind.

__

“I think no condom,” Stiles decides after a beat. “Kind of want the full experience for a first time.”

__

Derek inhales a little sharply before Stiles can feel the blunt head of his dick resting against his ass.

__

“You sure?”

__

“Uh huh,” Stiles replies, heart pounding with excitement and maybe a little bit of restlessness.

__

Then Derek slots his dick into place and starts pushing in. Even with all the fingering, Stiles has a brief second of doubt that it will fit. Derek isn’t exactly small and it’s not like Stiles has taken a lot of dick before. 

These are uncharted waters folks.

__

“Oh- fuck,” Derek groans, when he’s barely inside. “Stiles, _relax_.”

__

“You relax,” he whines, feeling his body struggle to accommodate Derek’s cock. There’s the slightest twinges of discomfort as Derek eases in, but it’s still not remotely painful.

__

Which is great. Stiles doesn’t do so great with pain. But the thing is Derek doesn’t sound like he’s doing so great right now either.

__

“Oh- oh god, fuck,” he gasps above Stiles, sounding surprisingly overwhelmed for someone who was appearing much the expert of guy on guy action a second ago. “You’re- tight.”

__

He knows that’s a line people say a lot, particularly in porn but Derek doesn’t sound like he’s giving it, the waver in his voice is agonisingly honest. Stiles’ entire body ripples, clamping down on instinct as Derek pushes in another few inches.

__

Derek actually curses, seizing Stiles’ hips as they both freeze. He feels Derek’s forehead drop down in between his shoulder blades a second later while he gasps into his skin. “Stop- oh- clenching.” 

__

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Stiles pants, trying to relax around Derek and let him in like he desperately wants to. “But- fuck- keep going please.”

__

Derek curses again and manages to push in further. Stiles is so turned on that he can no longer speak, just pants openly into the pillow and loses himself to the sensation. When Derek’s hipbones finally press up snugly against Stiles’ ass, signalling Derek is now fully inside him, Stiles’ dick is a wet mess against the sheets.

__

“Oh,” he breathes, as his body seems to relent around Derek’s cock.

__

“Easy,” Derek mutters, still not sounding so in control himself. “How do you feel?”

__

Stiles catalogues what his body is trying to tell him. Mostly he’s just really horny. Because Derek is inside him.

__

“I think you’re okay to move.”

__

Derek’s hands smooth along his back before he’s slowly withdrawing his dick and then sliding back inside. He doesn’t fully remove himself, more content to grind his hips forward into Stiles’ ass which is kind of perfect anyway.

__

Because Stiles is pretty certain it’s enough to make him come. Derek’s hands find their final resting place on Stiles’ hips and he begins to rock forward.

__

“The slow bone, hey?” Stiles manages to pant out when it seems like Derek won’t be furiously pounding into him like expected, as most porn he’s watched indicated he would. “Wanted to make- oh- make sure I feel every inch of-“

__

“Do you?” Derek interrupts, voice soft and low by his ear as he kisses the back of his throat, holding tightly to his hips. “Do you feel every inch of me?”

__

Stiles laughs and tosses his arm up to cover what’s visibly left of his face above the pillow out of sheer awkwardness of Derek maybe seeing his expression right now. “Yes,” he gasps on the next thrust, suppressing the whimper of pleasure Derek’s entirely too capable of wringing out of him.

__

“Good,” Derek says in answer, and then he’s bending and turning Stiles’ head in order to place kisses along his mouth, following the length of his jaw before sucking at the skin there.

__

Stiles hums and then moans when Derek’s attention shifts to his neck and his next thrust is particularly strong. Because of course Stiles’ throat was gonna work him up. 

__

Werewolf duh.

__

When he reaches beneath Stiles to try to take hold of his dick, Stiles immediately groans and tenses up.

__

“Oh don’t,” he moans, uncoordinatedly batting Derek away. “I’ll come so fast. I’m so close Derek.”

__

The sensation is even more incredible when Derek curses again, leaning in closer. 

“Fuck,” Derek gasps in his ear, going perfectly still inside him as Stiles clenches again. “You’re already so- do you want this to be over quickly?”

__

“Noooo,” Stiles protests, struggling to resist constricting Derek again just to hear him hiss in pleasure.

__

He holds off barely.

__

But Derek doesn’t move either and so they lay there for a couple seconds trying to equalize again. “Are you gonna come?” Stiles wonders, when all he can feel is the unrelenting, exquisite pressure of Derek’s dick, hot and thick inside him.

__

“Not yet,” Derek admits through gritted teeth and Stiles is fighting the urge to brag at possibly threatening Derek’s previously established stamina.

__

A second later, Derek’s hands slide along Stiles’ hips again and then he’s fucking into him, resuming his earlier pace. Albeit a little faster than before. “Oh god,” Stiles gasps, heat sparking up along his spine almost immediately, strongly certain that he could come without any touch to his dick at all.

__

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, lifting his hips up so his ass is in an arched position before rolling into him more smoothly. “You’re- fuck- clenching again.”

__

Stiles openly pants against the pillow and does his best not to groan at the sensation.

__

“I can’t help it. Your dick is huge.”

__

Derek actually laughs then, tugging at Stiles’ shoulder and encouraging him to tip backwards so he’s lying on his side without dislodging Derek’s dick. His arm comes around Stiles’ chest, the other steady on his hip as he gets them resituated.

__

“Better?”

__

“Oh- fuck I don’t know,” Stiles sobs. “I can’t focus on anything.”

__

Derek is fully pressed up against his back now, and leans in to nuzzle Stiles’ neck while he drags a hand down Stiles’ bare thigh. He grips underneath and tilts it upward a second later, shifting Stiles’ legs apart and changing the angle.

__

“How’s this?” he wonders when he edges out and pushes his dick back inside all at once.

__

Stiles lets out a long wretched moan as his answer. Derek doesn’t drop the grip on Stiles’ thigh and merely starts rocking into him again. It’s all building so quickly now, Stiles knows he can’t last much longer. No matter how badly he wants to.

__

“Oh, I’m gonna come,” he moans, pushing back against Derek’s thrusts. “I’m gonna-“

__

Derek slows down, making each rock of his hips more pronounced. So every sensation lingers that little bit longer. Stiles is already half out of his mind by this point.

__

“Derek,” he begs. Not even that certain of what he’s begging for. “Oh, Derek.”

__

Derek chances his pace again, hips speeding up as the rigid length of his cock carves Stiles open completely. The pressure distracts from everything else even as Stiles’ balls draw up in preparation of an approaching orgasm.

__

“Stiles-“ Derek barely starts before Stiles reaches out and seizes Derek’s forearm in a vice like grip, body heaving as he tenses up and comes, shooting all over the sheets.

__

Derek gasps in his ear, going still inside him while Stiles rides the ends of the wave, body slowly relaxing into the aftermath.

__

They don’t move for a least a minute and by then Stiles has somewhat recovered his facilities enough to realise Derek is still inside him and he hasn’t had the chance to come yet.

__

“Keep going,” he sighs, lethargic and relaxed all over now. “I want you to come in me.”

__

Derek grunts and actually bites at his throat, teeth applying the slightest hint of pressure as he groans and starts to move again. Slowly and steadily, like he’s got all the time in the world to fuck Stiles.

__

Which is insanely hot somehow. 

__

Stiles lets his eyes fall shut to better focus on all the sensations. Mostly he just feels really, really good. Derek keeps going for a couple more minutes before his pace switches again, applying a little bit more force than before as he climbs towards his own peak.

__

“Stiles,” he gasps, and Stiles reaches back to clutch at the side of Derek’s face, trying to bring him closer.

__

When he comes, the sensation of it is so unlike anything Stiles has experienced but the intimacy of the whole thing is not lost on him when Derek carefully pulls out.

__

“I’ll clean you up,” Derek promises after a moment but Stiles just tilts his head back and drags him down for a satisfied kiss.

__

“Sleep,” he says instead.

__

__

  
  


__

__

They sleep.

__

At one point Stiles wakes up, when the sun is setting through the large window and when he gets up in search of a glass of water, he doesn’t get the chance to return to bed with it, because Derek finds him in the kitchen and bends him over the counter to fuck him again.

__

Stiles is gonna end up with bruises on his hips just from endlessly being pushed into a hard surface and it is so so worth it even when he comes all over the countertop, Derek’s thick arms curled around him while the encompassing warmth of his hand jerks Stiles into another orgasm. 

__

From then on he thinks he won’t be able to look at a kitchen island without his toes curling in memory.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Derek follows him back to his house in the Camaro afterward. He’s not worried about the hunters anymore- none of the pack saw any of them emerging from the rubble and they searched for over an hour.

__

But he clearly isn’t ready to part ways yet.

__

Neither is Stiles, who’s still aching pleasantly in all the right places from their various roll arounds and he’s already considering the logistics of sneaking Derek up to his bedroom so they can fool around again later.

__

Except they run into his dad in the hallway.

__

“Hello Derek,” the sheriff says evenly, no trace of awareness in his expression.

__

Derek is not the kind to show fear.

__

“Hello John.”

__

His father nods as if satisfied by that. “I’ve been given strict instructions not to thank you for saving Stiles’ life.”

__

Derek tenses up incrementally and glances over at Stiles who is already glaring at him just from the reminder of that idiotic stunt alone. He has definitely not forgiven Derek for his efforts.

__

But then his father unleashes his Cop Glance on Derek next and Stiles realises suddenly that they’re done for.

__

“Though it seems like Stiles has showed his gratitude anyway,” he continues, eyes resting pointedly on the hickey at the dip of his throat and collarbone that Stiles’ thoroughly enjoyed working into Derek’s skin an hour ago.

__

He has only the briefest moment of regret flash in his mind.

__

“I swear to god, Dad stop talking if you know what’s good for you,” Stiles says, already pushing at his father’s shoulders and nudging him out of the way.

__

The sheriff merely grins and allows himself to be encouraged into retreating. “Okay I can take a hint. I know when I’m not welcome so I’ll just leave you boys to it.”

__

Whatever _it_ is sounds very suggestive. Stiles rolls his eyes and takes Derek’s hand, dragging him towards the staircase and up to the bedroom.

__

“Your amusement has been noted.”

__

“Thank you,” his dad calls out from the living room where he’s already settling back down onto the couch.

__

Stiles barely gets his bedroom door closed before he’s spinning to face Derek and suddenly being pushed against it.

__

“Oh- I-“

__

Derek kisses him, hands reaching out to take hold of his face as he presses up against his body steadily, firmly enough that Stiles feels every inch of the door against his back as he scrambles to grab at Derek’s arms.

__

Derek draws away a second later for breath but Stiles only chases after him.

__

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demands playfully, arms snaking around Derek’s neck and dragging him back for more kissing.

__

Derek’s lips are somehow softer than he was expecting, but they happily yield to Stiles’ mouth then later his tongue when he coaxes him open and pushes inside. Derek kisses like an absolute veteran, he seems to know instinctively where Stiles is going, turning and shifting to meet each change as it comes.

__

Stiles pulls away just so he can kiss at Derek’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, along his stubble, then his jaw, savouring the way Derek huffs out an amused breath and allows it. He’s enjoying this, Stiles thinks, practically dizzy with feeling as he presses a chaste kiss back to Derek’s mouth, loving the way his bottom lip gives under the pressure.

__

Stiles’ hands migrate back to Derek’s hair, one sliding along his neck, to the base of his collarbone where the hickey he made rests, thumb tracking the sensitive flesh. The touch has Derek hissing out a breath and Stiles steals it straight from his mouth with an elated laugh, overcome by his own happiness. That this is actually real. This is happening.

__

Until his elbow jars painfully against something solid.

__

“Ow fuck,” he mutters, pulling his head away without relinquishing his hold on Derek.

__

He realises abruptly that he’d enthusiastically thrown his entire body weight onto Derek just now and Derek was so distracted with the kissing that he let Stiles back them both into the wall. Stiles laughs, at his own surprise, and Derek’s expression even when Derek’s hand slides across his lower back and drags their lower halves together.

__

Then Stiles goes back to kissing him in earnest.

__

It’s Americas favourite pastime.

__

Well at the very least it’s now Stiles’.

__

Especially when Derek lets out a little hum of surprise at his enthusiasm, moving into Stiles’ touch, tilting his head agreeably under Stiles’ hand and kissing him back more deeply.

__

Stiles could honestly do this forever. Except he’d rather not do it standing up.

__

Derek lets Stiles encourage him toward the bed a second later and when Stiles draws back just to nudge at Derek’s chest pushing him backward, he allows that too. The look on Derek’s face is somewhat bemused when his back hits the mattress.

__

But he’s got no complaints when Stiles climbs on the bed then clambers on top of him.

__

“Hey,” Stiles says, dragging his hand softly down the side of Derek’s face, unable to resist caressing when he’s got Derek at his mercy. 

A little shiver passes through Derek and Stiles’ breath catches.

__

“Hey,” Derek replies, voice deeper than usual and he barely gets the word out before Stiles is leaning down and kissing him again. Derek’s arms are around him and Stiles didn’t know it would be like this. His heart was not at all prepared.

__

“Can I stay for dinner?” Derek murmurs against his jaw when Stiles breaks off to suck air back into his lungs.

__

He resists the urge to tell Derek he can stay forever if he’s into that. He’s already coming on pretty strong as it is. 

“Or you can sleep over,” he counters. “I promise to share the blanket.”

__

Derek’s eyes only narrow at him.

__

“No, you won’t.”

__

Oh the inexpressible joy of being understood by another person.

__

“No, I won’t.”

__

Derek still kisses him again anyway.

__

So at the very least he knows what he’s getting into. Stiles pulls away to scamper downstairs into the living room with the excuse of grabbing water but it’s really just so he can check in with his dad about the sleeping situation.

__

“Let me guess,” the sheriff says, before Stiles has even opened his mouth, not looking away from the TV. “You want Derek to sleep over.”

__

Oh no he was prepared for this.

__

“Father, light of my life, ultimate protector and provider of my happiness-“

__

“Get to the point, kid.”

__

Rough.

__

“Would you be opposed to permitting, that is to say would you uphold your previous status as an incredibly chill parent and-“

__

“Faster.”

__

Stiles sighs and gives up on being crafty. “Can Derek stay tonight?”

__

His dad merely withdraws his eyes from the TV and looks at him, waiting him out. Stiles feels suddenly like he should have brought a better bargaining chip to this conversation.

__

“Reason number one,” he starts, launching into the initial argument. “I am technically a grown adult and while I greatly respect your laws under this roof I feel this is not an unreasonable request for me to make.”

__

His father’s poker face is almost as legendary as Derek’s.

__

“Reason number two,” Stiles continues, not losing hope yet. “You like Derek- do not pretend otherwise I know you have a soft spot for him and he already politely asked if he could stay for dinner so how was I supposed to resist offering my bed for the night, really?”

__

The snort his father lets out is entirely disbelieving.

__

Time to bring out the big guns.

__

“Also, reason number three I am willing to hold off my routine stop and search of the house for a couple more days for the contraband that I know you have stashed around here from when I wasn’t home if you say yes.”

__

“A month,” his father finally speaks, and Stiles knows he’s got his attention.

__

“A week,” he contradicts. “And that’s my final offer.”

__

No matter how badly he wants Derek here he still has some things he won’t budge on. His father seems to realise this. “Deal,” he says, then holds his hand out to shake on it. 

__

Stiles grins and takes the offer.

__

“You know you’re right,” his father says when Stiles is within distance, still shaking his hand. “I do have a soft spot for Derek and probably would have said yes before you went and offered no contraband for a week.”

__

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, annoyed with himself for not playing on his father’s heartstrings more.

__

His father smiles at him in unmistakable triumph. “Derek like steak? I’m in the mood for a barbeque.”

__

Goddammit he’s going to be an absolute pain for the rest of the week. Still totally worth it though. 

Stiles sighs and tries not to openly show his disappointment about his father’s lapsing diet. “Yes, he’s a werewolf I’m assuming he’ll eat roadkill if hungry enough.”

__

A disgruntled noise comes from upstairs and Stiles realises that Derek is listening to everything they’re saying and obviously has some opinions on the roadkill comment.

__

Uh oh.

__

“Yes, well,” he says, flushing a little as his father laughs at him. “I’m just gonna go back upstairs now. Thank you for your time.”

__

“You’re welcome,” his dad replies, still grinning and chortling a little to himself before turning back to the TV.

__

Stiles sighs and climbs up the stairs again, thinking Derek’s probably not going to be very pleased when he gets there. 

As always Derek outdoes himself, sitting on the edge of the bed, arms folded as he frowns at the open doorway.

__

“Roadkill, Stiles, _really_?”

__

Well he never said he was perfect.

__

“Don’t even front on that when I know what you’re really caught up on is the fact that my dad likes you.”

__

Derek makes a disingenuous face. “I don’t care if your dad likes me,” he mutters, looking away.

__

Stiles smiles and tackles Derek into a hug, the both of them tipping back on the mattress in a tangled heap.

__

“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” Stiles murmurs jauntily into Derek’s hair. “Because you’re a terrible liar.”

__

Derek only stiffens in his arms a little which looks a lot like progress to Stiles. “Shut up,” he replies, only half-heartedly, sounding muffled against Stiles’ neck. “I’m gonna go out and buy your dad the biggest steak I can find.”

__

Stiles glares into Derek’s hair.

__

“I’ve suddenly decided that I’d rather you didn’t bond with my father.”

__

Derek laughs against his skin. “Too late,” he says, sounding smug. “I’ve already spent time with him. We’re friends. Pack.”

__

Stiles feels an immense flutter of satisfaction at this but hold off on expressing it in any obvious way. “Nope,” he protests. “It’s too weird. I’m putting my foot down.”

__

“You do that,” Derek retorts, seemingly content with being cuddled by Stiles. “I’m still gonna have a beer with him later though.”

__

Stiles makes another noise of dissent but it’s mostly just for the sake of appearances and Derek definitely knows it.

__

“You’re disappointed right?” Stiles guesses. “You thought you were going to be my bad boy boyfriend but my dad loves you already and lets you climb through my bedroom window and everything.”

__

Derek drags Stiles closer. “You’re such an unconventional family.”

__

This is very much true and they wear it like a badge of honour.

__

“The Stilinski’s are one of a kind,” Stiles says proudly.

__

__

  
  


__

__

An hour later, Derek disappears out the door with promises of buying steak for their dinner.

__

Stiles is briefly sad to see him go before he remembers that he will be returning shortly and will also be staying the night. Which is actually kind of insanely perfect and he hasn't fully accepted it as his reality yet.

__

So he retreats to the kitchen and sets about making a salad to go with the barbeque. He’s only just put the finishing touches and placed it back into the fridge in the meantime when Derek is walking back into the kitchen with a modest handful of wrapped meat.

__

Stiles glances down at it, realising at once that it looks a little different from their usual. “What meat is this?” he mutters once his father has disappeared outside to start the barbeque and is evidently out of ear shot.

__

“I’m friends with a butcher in town,” Derek mutters back under his breath, not at all answering his question. “He gave me some of his personal stock.”

__

Stiles’ eyes narrow in suspicion. “Yes, but _what_ meat is it?”

__

Derek’s mouth twitches a little.

__

“Kangaroo meat.”

__

“Kanga-“ Stiles half shouts, then drops his voice when his dad’s head snaps up at the noise outside. “Like from the country of Australia?”

__

“Yes,” Derek says solemnly. “But don’t tell your father where I got it because it’s illegal to import into California-“

__

“Why exactly are we feeding my dad the illegal meats of Australian pests?”

__

Derek raises an eyebrow at him like he’s surprised Stiles is doubting his judgement. “Because it’s one of the healthiest lean red meats. High in protein, iron, zinc and low in saturated fats?”

__

Hmm, Derek might be winning Stiles over to his cause. Who doesn’t mind a bit of criminal meat here and there. “How low are we talking here?”

__

“Less than 2 per cent fat.”

__

“Holy shit, okay. Guess we’re feeding my dad kangaroo meat and you are telling me later more about your shady butcher friend.”

__

Derek rolls his eyes. “He’s not shady. He’s just a meat enthusiast who doesn’t agree with Californian laws against importing specialty meats.”

__

Stiles is oddly touched that after all his threatening before that Derek went out and actually got Stiles’ dad good quality meat. For them all to eat. Stiles is only a little wary to try it but he’s willing to do so if that means his father will be consuming it none the wiser.

__

So he follows Derek out to join his dad at the barbeque. His father stares at the meat once he’s unwrapped it, looking a little puzzled.

__

“What kind of meat is this?” he wonders, accepting the beer Derek passes him with a thankful nod.

__

Derek sensibly says nothing.

__

“Meat,” Stiles offers with no further backstory.

__

His father isn’t wholly resistant to trying new things but Stiles is a little concerned the illegal aspects might prevent him being adventurous.

__

“Okay,” he replies, frowning through his mistrust then glancing between Stiles and Derek warily.

__

Derek clinks his bottle against Stiles’ fathers and quickly takes a pull of his beer, eyes slipping over towards Stiles almost automatically. Stiles, who refuses to let any hint of the knowledge he possesses show on his face looks back.

__

The meat, it turns out, isn’t half bad.

__

And it’s greatly improved by the company anyway.

__

__

  
  


__

__

The next morning Stiles opens his eyes to find he has latched onto something in the middle of the night.

__

That something being Derek Hale. He realises he’s pressed up firmly against Derek’s back, arm wound around him and face buried against his shoulder blade and- Derek let him do this all night.

__

In fact, from the steady rise and fall of Derek’s body, he’s still asleep. Comfortable in the position.

__

Stiles is almost breathless with emotion at the thought. Derek let Stiles cover his unprotected back- he fell asleep that way. He _trusts_ Stiles. This is all so much. 

But that doesn't mean he can resist pressing his mouth to Derek’s bare shoulder to express some of what he's feeling. Almost immediately Derek starts to stir.

__

“Mmm?” he murmurs, some kind of question to Stiles, still not fully awake yet even as he takes the hand Stiles has wrapped around him and brings it to his chest.

__

It’s such an unconscious gesture that Stiles wants to release an inhuman screech of triumph, giddiness and an absolutely feral sense of happiness. He resists though because it’s barely 8 am.

And the Sebergs will call the cops on him. 

__

But it takes some effort on his part.

__

“Nothing,” he says, once he’s gotten his voice under control, kissing Derek’s skin again. “Go back to sleep.”

__

Derek makes another noise but settles back down again without protest. And Stiles can’t help but watch him for as long as possible. He’s actually out of his mind with love for this guy.

__

It’s a powerful feeling.

__

__

  
  


__

__

“I’ll come back this afternoon,” Derek promises, throwing on his jacket with a yawn as he finishes getting dressed. “I told Cora and Boyd I’d meet them at the gym at ten.”

__

“Why do werewolves even go to the gym,” he mutters, accompanying Derek down the stairs and following him out of the house. “Seems kind of counterproductive.”

__

“It’s not,” Derek assures him. “Werewolves need exercise too.”

__

“Yeah, but it’s not like you guys need help bulking up. You’re all freakishly jacked up already.”

__

“Goodbye Stiles.”

__

Well fine then clearly they will not see eye to eye on this. Stiles follows Derek out onto his driveway then beckons him closer before he can make his retreat for what Stiles believes should be his goodbye kiss.

__

Which with the privileges he now shares with Derek, he thinks he is absolutely entitled to.

__

And Derek is more than happy to meet his needs. He catches hold of Stiles’ shirt and hauls him in closer, mouth descending on his lips. It’s blissfully disarming. Or it is until someone pointedly clears their throat at a distance, interrupting them.

__

Derek jerks back in surprise but Stiles has already located the source of the sound. The Seberg family. Satan and his mistress themselves are standing in their own driveway across the road from them, watching on with disapproval.

__

Stiles has a feeling they received the note he pinned to their windscreen a couple months ago and did not appreciate his dry wit.

__

“Stiles,” Derek hisses, recognising the car they’re standing behind and the driveway which he happened to catch Stiles sneaking around in all those nights ago. “They’re your neighbours?”

__

Stiles glances over at them, making eye contact with his nemeses.

__

“Ugh. The Sebergs.”

__

They’re still staring at Derek and Stiles in the driveway. Stiles raises his hand to announce himself, middle finger featured prominently but he barely gets to display it before Derek is snatching it from the air, lightning quick and dragging his hand back down.

__

But not letting go.

__

“They’re like ninety years old,” Derek snaps, glancing over at the elderly couple to see if they saw Stiles’ formal greeting. 

__

He sure hopes they did.

__

“So?” he retorts. “Evil has no age limit, Derek.”

__

“You really think they’re the ones who have been leaving notes on your car?”

__

“I _know_ they have been.”

__

Derek appraises them again but just starts to look more confused. That’s their superpower though, the lovely little old Seberg couple appear to be the least likely people to cause any problems, and they know it.

__

“They look like they have mobility issues, Stiles.”

__

God, Derek is falling right into their trap. “That’s what they _want_ you to believe,” he insists. “Look ask my dad if you don’t believe me. They’re evil incarnate, Derek.” 

__

They’re still looking at Derek but Stiles’ eyes automatically slide over to the Camaro which wasn’t parked in front of the Seberg house all of last night but is actually on Stiles’ side of the road.

__

But even he can see the paper note stuck under the windshield from here.

__

“Oh no they did _not_ ,” he says, dropping his hold on Derek and stomping on over to the Camaro.

__

Derek hurries after him like he’s not sure what transpired in the space of two seconds before he sees the note as well. 

“Oh,” he echoes, glancing back over at the elderly couple. “It can’t be them Stiles, seriously. It would have taken all night for them to cross the road.”

__

“I’m telling you it’s them,” Stiles insists, plucking the note out from underneath the windshield and opening it.

__

Derek leans over his shoulder to read it as well.

__

It says, **Please keep your hoodlum boyfriend off of our property in future or we will be forced to call the authorities**.

__

Stiles scrunches up the note and whirls around, taking a step to cross the road. Derek prudently reaches out and catches at his waist in order to hold him back.

__

In the meantime the Seberg couple has mysteriously vanished. Mobility issues, Stiles’ _ass_.

__

“See that lovely bigleaf maple in their front yard, Derek,” he continues conversationally, while struggling against Derek’s hold. “I’m gonna dust it.”

__

“You lost that talent, remember?” Derek says, laughing a little at the situation. “I can’t believe out of the two of us _you’re_ considered the hoodlum in our relationship.”

__

And hello is this ever new information. 

Stiles stops struggling and twists in Derek’s arms to better see his face. “Our relationship huh,” he says casually. “Are we defining those parameters now?”

__

Derek face reveals nothing. “I thought we already did, hoodlum boyfriend.”

__

Stiles wants to be offended but he’s too wrapped up in Derek calling him his boyfriend to focus properly. “Good to know,” he manages after a beat. “So then what are you bringing to the relationship if I’m the menace to society?”

__

Derek nudges him backwards, gently pinning him against the door of the Camaro before leaning down and kissing him again. “I’m the one setting you on the straight and narrow. I’m the good influence.”

__

Stiles snorts, grinning at the thought before dragging Derek’s mouth back towards his. They end up necking against the car for a couple more minutes before there’s a loud banging sound.

__

Derek pulls away again and slowly removes his hands off of Stiles while Stiles locates his father standing on the porch where he clearly whacked the door to get their attention.

__

“Stiles, let the poor man leave already. Or he won’t ever come back.”

__

He lets out a squawk of protest, releasing his hold on Derek’s jacket in order to shake his fist properly at his father.

__

But Derek leans in to mutter, “I’ll come back,” into his ear, and then Stiles is flushing at the weighted promise in the words before he moves away from Derek with a jerky wave, jogging back over to the house.

__

“I can’t believe you just interrupted us like that,” he grumbles, glancing over his shoulder to watch Derek climb into the Camaro and drive off.

__

“The neighbours already complain about you enough without you giving them a free show in the middle of the street,” his father says, sipping his coffee and disappearing back through the doorway, ignoring Stiles’ open mouth and his offended stance.

__

Stiles follows him inside next, shutting the door behind him and heading straight over to the trash to dump the stupid note.

__

“I’ll give as many free shows as I want, thank you very much.”

__

But even he has to admit the Sebergs calling him the hoodlum in a choice between him and Derek, who still can't resist a leather jacket, is actually kind of funny.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Stiles gets a text from Scott before he’s finished his morning coffee.

__

**Wanna go 2 the movies just me and u? a quiet place 2 is out :)**

__

He smiles into the phone and types out a yes.

__

__

  
  


__

__

Despite the embarrassing scene his father made in the middle of their street, Derek does actually return to the house that afternoon.

__

They practically arrive at the same time when Stiles is heading from the movies with Scott. Things still feel a little bit off kilter but he knows Scott is trying and he’s doing his best to be open and honest too. He feels somewhat confident they’ll figure it out together.

__

In the meantime, Stiles has just finished up getting acquainted with Derek’s mouth again and the rest of his body because his father is still at work before truly settling into the post coital haze and abruptly deciding to tell Derek the truth.

__

“So there’s something I didn’t mention,” he announces suddenly, without any real warning. “That I might have neglected to show Deaton when he did that check-up on me.”

__

Derek rolls over, sheets sliding off his bare chest, giving the hint of what else might be underneath. It’s his dick. Which Stiles knows fairly intimately seeing as he’s currently naked in Stiles’ bed.

__

Derek also knows him well enough to brace himself. “What is it?”

__

“Here,” Stiles says, grabbing a tissue from the box on his bedside table and resting it in his palm. “Look.”

__

He concentrates for a second, thinking what he wants to happen and the tissue disintegrates. Derek’s eyebrows practically disappear into his hair. “The wolfsbane? It’s still-“

__

“No. That was all me,” Stiles declares sunnily. “Just wait a second.”

__

Derek waits. And then his eyebrows climb higher still when black lines start showing up on Stiles’ skin. Lines that happen to identically resemble the wolfsbane vines he had tattooed on him a week ago.

__

Derek snatches at his forearm because naturally he did not learn his lesson about touching death-inducing things the first time. But thankfully these marks aren’t dangerous to werewolves. Not anymore.

__

“What?” he asks, puzzled. “Why is it still there?”

__

Stiles shrugs, humming thoughtfully as they watch his skin for several minutes before the tattoos fade away again. “I’m pretty sure it’s a magical scar,” Stiles admits. “They only show up when I do- yaknow” he waggles his fingers. “The weird stuff.”

__

“Huh,” Derek says, still staring at the spot on his forearm. “You’re so fucking strange. And that’s coming from a werewolf.”

__

Stiles, who is at a point in his life where that's a compliment, laughs. “Thanks,” he says, tugging his arm out of Derek’s hand so he can throw both around his neck and mash their mouths together.

__

The lack of finesse is not an issue for Derek who makes a noise into Stiles' mouth, but answers back just as enthusiastically, hands sliding past Stiles’ ribs to wrap around his back as he encourages him down onto the bed. Stiles doesn’t need much or any convincing, his own hands quickly tangled in Derek’s hair, skimming over the bare skin of his shoulders as he pulls Derek down on top of him more firmly.

__

God what a great place to be. Under a naked Derek Hale.

__

Stiles doesn’t even suggest closing his blinds either.

__

He hopes the Sebergs get an eyeful.

__

__

  
  


__

__

The next morning the Sebergs can be witnessed standing outside in their front yard, staring confusedly at the empty space of where their maple tree had previously stood untouched for over a decade. 

__

In the weeks ahead, neither of them manage to figure out what happened to it- since the ground wasn’t dug up and there’s no sign nor trace of a stray leaf anywhere.

__

Instead the disappearance of the maple tree becomes a story of common legend amongst their neighbours who whisper of the mysterious circumstances at great length whenever passing the house. About how a 30 foot tree could vanish from the Seberg's front yard in the dead of night and leave absolutely no trace whatsoever- not even a hole in the ground.

And they never come close to figuring it out. 

__

But a certain hoodlum by the name of Stiles Stilinski might have some insider knowledge on the finer details of what happened to the maple. As might John Stilinski, when he eventually stops laughing and lecturing his son about it.

__

The Stilinski's _are_ an unconventional family after all.

__

__

  
  


__

__


End file.
